


The Last Temptation of Corypheus

by Proud Rose (The_Author)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Demons, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic, Religion, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9791822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Author/pseuds/Proud%20Rose
Summary: The Herald of Andraste is a man seen by all as gloriously divine, chosen by the Maker himself to lead the people into a new era. But he is a man just the same, a man subject to fear, doubt, pain, and temptation. As he navigates his new role as both prophet and heretic, he tries to resist temptation in all its forms, especially the handsome man from Tevinter - a rewrite of Nikos Kazantzakis'sThe Last Temptation of Christ.





	1. Chapter 1

Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast sat on a low stool in the small training yard not far from Haven's front gate, sharpening her sword. It was still bright outside: the spring light drew slowly away from the face of the earth and did not wish to leave. Down in the valleys below, men and druffalo were returning from their work in the fields. Wives lighted fires for the evening cooking; the fragrance of burning wood invaded the afternoon air. Cassandra moved her whetstone across her blade and her mind ran this way, now that-- together with the movement of her hand. What was she doing? She had re-instated the Inquisition against the will of the Chantry, she had spared and protected the man everyone knew had murdered the Divine even if the motive and means were still unclear, least of all to the murderer himself. Was this what the Maker wanted of her?

A bunting bird landed beside her feet. A small, fat little thing with pretty gray plumage, it pecked at the ground without a care for the giant that sat next to it. With a sigh, the Seeker finally let her arm drop and whispered, "Take me where you want, Maker; do with me what you will." 

At once the little bird flew up into the sky, beat its wings for a moment over her head and then alighted with dignity towards the green winding scar that marred the sky. _If only Leliana was here_ , Cassandra thought. _She sees signs everywhere, in the roses, in the clouds... she could interpret the language of birds for me._ Cassandra had been taught all her life not to look for signs, that to believe in such things was heresy. The Maker had turned His back on the world. He no longer meddled in the affairs of such lowly, ungrateful creatures and to think otherwise spoke of pride. And yet Cassandra could not bring herself to believe it. He must care for them still, He would not abandon them, not now in this trying time. 

If only it was possible for the Maker to always come down so sweetly over men. Three days ago she had climbed the mountain trail to the heaven-kissed Temple of Sacred Ashes and delivered the Divine to her death. Divine Justinia had wanted peace with the mages, to put an end to the rebellion, and all she had gotten for her hopes and dreams was a violent end. It had been such a lovely spring day; not a cloud in the sky. They had reached the holy summit at exactly noon. And Cassandra had left her, abandoned her. On her orders, yes, but she should not have followed them. The Divine had wanted to make a grand show of peace, but Cassandra had known in her heart of hearts that something terrible was going to happen. She should have listened to that voice. If she had, perhaps the Divine would still be alive. 

She had only just returned to the midway camp at the base of the mountain when it happened. Bellowing, hail-laden clouds bounded angrily towards the foundations of heaven and formed a swirling funnel over the Temple. There was a terrifying flash of lightning that colored the whole sky green. Like the churning ocean, the wind rolled over the mountains and towards the camp. The force of it threw her onto the ground and left her insensible for some time. How long she wasn't actually sure, but when she managed to pull herself to her feet she saw that the Temple was gone and an open wound hung suspended above them. It was a gaping, terrible thing that led directly into the abyss and seemed to scream with the fury of it all. The Maker had descended in a savage form on top of the mountain and spoke in a savage way. 

Unable to continue her thoughts, Cassandra stood up and sheathed her sword. A restlessness had fallen over her and, without thinking, her feet began to move, to take her to a small cottage nestled on the outskirts of Haven. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, her dark eyes immediately falling onto the man that lay writhing on the bed. Adan sat on a chair next to him, his head lolling but not quite asleep. His expression was dull, as though he was long passed emotions. "Go," she said. "Get some rest. I will watch him." 

She did not need to tell him twice. He was on his feet and out the door with a quickness she had not expected from his tired body. With a sigh, Cassandra dropped into the chair and watched Maxwell Trevelyan fight in his sleep. The Mark on his hand seemed to vibrate with power, but at least it had stopped growing. She did not know what to think of him. Leliana had delivered years worth of information on the man. His beginning was unremarkable: a third-born son of a noble family, educated in law and the warrior arts, pledged to the Chantry at the age of ten and began training as a Templar at thirteen. He had always had a bit of a temper, his childhood filled with the sort of schoolyard scuffles that Cassandra was no stranger to. No one suspected what he would one day do. Eighteen years old and on the cusp of graduating to full knighthood, Trevelyan murdered a man. The victim had been another recruit, one of Trevelyan's own comrades. The boy had made some disparaging comments in jest and Trevelyan had taken exception to it. They had argued and then they had fought. By his own admittance, Trevelyan had taken the first swing. The fight had barely lasted more than a few seconds before the recruit was on the ground, and yet Trevelyan still had not let up. He had continued his furious punches until there was nothing left of the boy's face but a pulpy, blood-covered mass. 

He had openly admitted his wrongdoing, allowed himself to be taken into custody. He might have even been executed, were it not for his family. Bann Trevelyan had quietly pulled some strings, money changed hands, and instead of rotting inside a prison, Maxwell Trevelyan found himself idling away his hours as a lay brother these past ten years. The whole thing sickened Cassandra. Just one more corruption among thousands. But he had not wilted when faced with the Breach and fought his way through the demons that spewed from the gaping, green maw that hung above their heads without a second thought to his own life, despite the pain of the Mark and the deaths of his friends and fellow clerics. She was at a lost. There were whispers amongst the servants and the few surviving mages, that this man was a Herald sent by Andraste. Her own soldiers had reported seeing a woman standing behind him when he fell through the Fade, the only survivor of the explosion that took their Divine. But surely Andraste would not spare a murderer like him, while letting Her most devoted servant die. Why not choose the Divine? She wanted to cry, but her eyes had finally been drained dry. Whatever tears the Maker had apportioned her she had already spilled, and she looked at Trevelyan dry-eyed. 

Trevelyan opened his eyes. They were glassy, full of pain and fever, unable to focus on any one thing as his body twisted and sweated through his misery. He looked as though he was wrestling with some unseen force. Cassandra leaned down and whispered into his ear, "Who are you fighting?" 

"Andraste!" The man cried out and Cassandra didn't know if he was answering her or if he was merely calling for the Bride in his fevered state. His eyes drifted shut again and all fight fled his body as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Was this sign? Or did she only wish it to be?

* * *

Maxwell opened his eyes to the newborn light, uncertain and pale, sliding through the cracks of the door. There was a deep silence, and he wondered what had happened to the world. He didn't think a soul existed outside of this hut. Had the demons overwhelmed them while he had slept? Had the Breach opened its jaws and swallowed them whole? But then, little by little, the world returned to life as the dawning light inched its way across the sky. He heard doors open, and the morning murmur of people as they bustled down the street. Suddenly there was a great cry from the chantry as the sisters burst into song: "Glory! Glory! Glory! Hail to the Maker Most High! Hail to Andraste, Prophet and liberator, Light of the world! Look upon our work, O Maker, and rejoice!" He laid beneath the covers, drinking it in, when all at once Maxwell gasped and choked, clutching at his left hand. It felt as though it had been cracked open and molten lead poured through the wound. Just as quickly the pain passed, the green pouring from the wound retreated, until there was nothing left but a scar. 

The heavy sound of wood crashing against stone shattered the silence and Maxwell jerked his head up to see a young elven woman staring at him with large, awestruck eyes. "I didn't know you were awake, I swear!" 

"Don't worry about it, I only--" Maxwell began, but the girl collapsed and for a moment he thought she had fainted. But she remained upright, on her hands and knees, her head hung low. 

"I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant. You are back in Haven, my lord. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days." 

"Then the danger is over." 

"The Breach is still in the sky, but that's what they say. I'm certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've wakened. She said, 'At once.'" 

"And where is she?" 

"In the chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. 'At once,' she said." 

The girl flew to her feet and raced out the door. Maxwell pulled himself from the bed to follow her. His legs shook as he braced his feet against the floor, and it left him feeling weak. Finally free from the nest of blankets, his skin thrummed with the desire to do nothing more than to crawl back into bed. He felt his eyes shut on their accord and he wavered, just for a second. But the stubbornness that had caused him so much grief in the past clawed it's way to the top of his thoughts and he forced himself to open his eyes again and press on. In the chilled, still air he groped for the plain black robes that had been left discarded on a chair with numb, clumsy fingers. Maxwell swore under his breath as he did up his robes. His fingers felt too stiff to handle the small, fragile buttons. They were stretched tight across Maxwell's chest and the sleeves stopped short several inches above his wrists, making him feel gangly and ridiculous. Tall and broad and savage, his skin ruddy and covered in freckles, his hair and beard a mass of red tangles, he looked like a wild man. His face was long, as was his nose, and his thick beard only made it look longer. It was not a beautiful face, but it looked like it had seen and done much. With a final curse, Maxwell gave up on looking like a civilized person and threw open the door where a crowd stood waiting.

Maxwell's stomach turned at the sight of them all, and they stared blandly back at him. He took two steps, three, and stopped. He thought he heard two heavy feet moving along with him. Maxwell looked behind him, but there was no one. Just a sea of faces. He tightened his belt, feeling the empty scabbard that hung limply at his side, and went down the narrow, twisting lanes. As he passed by the people, whispers rose up like a wave, but he couldn't make out the words.

As he came upon the steps of the chantry, his heart suddenly skipped a beat; he had just clearly heard two feet running behind him. He shortened his stride and listened carefully. The two feet checked their pace. He stopped. The two feet stopped also. Quickly he turned to look, but again he saw no one behind him. Just servants, and clerics, and soldiers, and mages swaying slightly in the breeze, like a field of wheat, and staring silently at Maxwell in confusion as they wondered to themselves at his odd behavior. 

Their murmuring grew louder. "He's one of Bann Trevelyan's boys. The poor Bann, such a good, pious man, only to get stuck with a son like that." 

"But he's the Herald of Andraste! Everyone says so." 

"He's a murderer. Killed a Templar with his bare hands. They say he just went mad. Look at him, he has a wild look in his eyes." 

Maxwell turned away sharply and once more the dull whispers faded. He pushed his way inside the chantry. 

"Have you gone completely mad?" A voice reverberated through the oratory, echoing off the bare stone. "He should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine!" 

"I do not believe he is guilty." 

Maxwell slowed his steps the moment he heard Cassandra speak. Why wouldn't she believe it? The man could very well be right. He didn't remember what had happened, but he was guilty of many other things. For all he knew, maybe he did kill he Divine. He came to a stop in front of a closed door, listening to the voices that floated through. But soon the conversation was edged out of his head as his thoughts were again filled with the presence that he knew to be behind him. He felt like a trapped animal as he heard those feet come to a stop, and the green Mark on his hand sparked and flickered like a fire going out. 

He had never been the type to wait patiently and once again he turned to face his stalker. "Reveal yourself!" 

Not a soul replied. Nothing but the eternal sounds of the village rising sweetly, peacefully into the air. Maxwell stared, listening intently. He thought the chantry dimmer than what it had been when he entered. He could see the chandeliers glowing with light, but they couldn't touch him. There was a laugh, coming softly out of the darkness. He saw the air whirl, congeal and become a body which was no sooner formed than unformed and lost. 

He lifted his hand, recalling the old movements from his days as a Templar recruit as though he had never stopped doing them. He had no lyrium, had never progressed far enough in his training to begin taking the stuff, but he had heard it was possible to Smite demons without it and perhaps, with the Mark on his hand... 

Melting away with effort, Maxwell fought to tether the dark air. And then, without losing his tranquility or uttering a cry, he saw him-- Arran Braun. But he looked different than he had that day at the monastery when they had fought. Flashing before him was the savage body of a man covered head to foot in violet scales. The head was partially human, with twisting horns and deep-set black eyes and a crooked mouth which smiled at him. He looked tranquilly, mercilessly, at Maxwell. At his murderer. 

What little hold on him he had soon dissipated. He was gone. Maxwell breathed deeply through his nose. It was a curse. Or an abomination. Perhaps he had not walked out of the Fade alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Maxwell looked out across the valley, breathing in the lingering scent of smoke that clung to the green-tinged air. The Breach made everything just a little greener, a little brighter, a little less real. In the distance he could hear the sound of metal crashing and the great booming, like distant thunder, of magefire. Next to Kirkwall, Ferelden had suffered much during the Mage Rebellion and with Divine Justinia's conclave destroyed the Templars had resumed their dogged pursuit of the mages. Maxwell sighed with a sense of exhaustion and dismal forebodings, and started down the hill. His companions followed close at his heels. 

There was a chill despite the bright, spring morning, but by the time Maxwell reached the main road he was soaked with sweat underneath his plate armor and heavy horsehead maul. But the land was beautiful and lifted his spirits. The valley was just awakening; the first rays of the sun had fallen and filled the sprawling wheat fields with gold. Only a few heavy, dark clouds marred the sky. The twisting path wound in and out through the vineyards, rose once more, and reached the peach orchards. Maxwell followed it as one sways to the Chant. The whole journey seemed like a dream to him. He scarcely touched the earth; his feet trod his human seal, the heel and five toes, lightly into the soil. The peach trees waved their laden branches and welcomed him. The grapes had begun to shine; the heavy clusters hung down until they reached the ground. The farm girls who refused to be driven out went by with their white kerchiefs and firm, sunburned arms and greeted him sweetly: Hello! Good morning! 

Sometimes, when not a soul was visible on the path, he heard the heavy footsteps behind him again. It did not match Solas's soft tread, or Cassandra's ground-eating stomp, or Varric's scuffling saunter. But Maxwell forced himself to be patient. The demon would reveal itself soon enough and then he would kill it. 

He should have told Cassandra what he had seen, or Solas. But although Cassandra claimed to believe he was innocent, he could tell she was still wrestling with her conscience. He wasn't sure he could trust her. As for Solas... Maxwell stole a glance at the elf beside him. He had never been one to fear magic. It was true that a mage could easily kill him with a well-timed spell. But a lot of things could kill him. He might die from a fireball thrown by a mage, or he might die in a fire he caused himself by thoughtlessly knocking over a candle. The how wasn't important, the end result was still the same. The real fear was in becoming an abomination or some blood mage's thrall, and since he possessed no magic he had nothing to worry about in regards to the former. Normally. But Maxwell's uninvited companion had never attempted to possess him. In fact, it didn't do much of anything at all, except follow him. More like a curse than an abomination. As for the latter, a blood mage could not sustain that kind of control for long. Lapses would occur. And then Maxwell would kill them. Or they would kill him. Either way, he'd be free. 

So it wasn't Solas's magic that unnerved him. Maxwell couldn't really say what it was, other than the man was a vexing creature who lived to tempt his temper. The mocking tone, the conversations that seemed double-layered with hidden meanings, the rambling tangents about things Maxwell did not -- and could not -- understand. No matter how innocuous their conversations may begin, soon hot words would explode from his mouth before Maxwell could stop them, enraged by the man's expert baiting, and Solas could no more back down from a fight than the ex-Templar. The whole of Haven would be forced to listen to their arguments. No, he did not care that Solas was an expert in demonology. He would not go to him with _this_. 

And he might as well ask a duck for its advice than turn to Varric. 

By the time they reached the Crossroads, dusk was approaching on the horizon. Maxwell halted at the well, listening to the local gossip as he drew a bucket of water for his companions to drink from. He took a sip before passing it down to Varric, and stared at the tightly packed bodies that filled every inch of space available. Mixed in with the belligerent farmers and frightened, wild-eyed refugees were many strangers. Mages, some of them enchanters of notable status from the looks of their fine robes hidden beneath a layer of dust and dirt. King Alistair had given them sanctuary and they had flooded Ferelden from every corner of Thedas. Maxwell could see the growing tension between them and the locals; and now, with the Templars refusing to back down and killing anyone suspected of magic indiscriminately, the situation would only get worse. 

One mage in particular caught Maxwell's eye. Unlike the others, he didn't look haggard or fearful. His clothes, while simple, were new and clean. There was an old woman sitting on a stool. She had a grate filled with burning coals and was baking potatoes. Next to this were roasted pumpkin seeds and, in two deep wooden plates, chick-pea meatballs which she sold smothered in pepper. She wrapped the seeds in brown butcher paper and handed it to the man in exchange for a few coppers. As he took it, his eyes caught Maxwell's. He couldn't tell the color from this distance, but he knew they were fair. They stood stark against his rich dark skin and raven hair. He must have seen something in Maxwell's face because he suddenly smirked. 

"I just spoke with one of the healers," Cassandra announced, pulling Maxwell's gaze from the man. He hadn't even realized that she'd left. "Mother Giselle is helping a patient. She's likely to be a few hours, at least." 

"I will see if she is in need of any assistance," Solas said. 

Varric waved him off. "You do that. I'm going to check if this place has anything stronger than water to drink." 

As the other two turned away, Cassandra fixed her dark eyes on Maxwell, pinning him in place just as he was about to make his escape. "We should speak with Corporal Vale while we're here." 

"You go on without me, I have some business to attend to," Maxwell replied. 

"Business?" Cassandra wrinkled her nose in a way that Maxwell was beginning to recognize as both dubious and disgusted in equal measure. "What business?" 

Maxwell nodded towards the old woman. "Supper." 

He heard Varric snort, even as the dwarf continued on his way up the street without so much as a glance behind him. At the sound of it, Maxwell could feel the beginnings of a hot blush rising up his neck and cheeks. Cassandra merely rolled her eyes, however, and went to find the Corporal, leaving Maxwell to do as he pleased. 

Maxwell walked slowly towards the woman, his eyes scanning the sea of faces. He heard someone laughing to his right and he turned, catching a glimpse of the black-haired man as he rounded the side of an empty hut. Maxwell followed after him and entered a small courtyard. At its center stood a peach tree heavy with fruit, perfuming the air with a fragrance that managed to drown out the stench of smoke and blood and unwashed bodies. The mage was sitting on a little stone bench, eating the roasted seeds. He held them out to Maxwell, who took the offering gratefully. The warm flavor burst across his tongue and as Maxwell settled next to the mage he quietly took in the flowers and trees that surrounded them, drinking in their beauty. Maxwell could feel his companion's amusement mount as the silence dragged on, but he had always liked the quiet and didn't mind. For once his temper was calm; he felt at peace. And why shouldn't he be? There was a handsome man sitting next to him and the earth was shining and pretty. He felt he had plunged into everlasting beatitude. He heard the cackling of the birds, the wind blowing through the leaves of the trees, and the old woman load her grate with more potatoes. 

_This is Paradise_ , Maxwell meditated. _This deep sleep we call life. I don't know what the Maker could offer that is better than this that I should want to be at His side._

"This is a very strange way for a Templar to go about arresting a mage," the dark-haired man suddenly said. "I'd almost think it was a seduction." 

"You think I'm a Templar?" Maxwell asked. 

The mage smirked and nodded. "You have the look." There was a dangerous glint to him, as though he wasn't quite sure of what to make of Maxwell. Interested, but cautious, perhaps. 

"Sorry, I'm afraid I was kicked out of the Order." 

The man's grin only grew wider, and more sincere. Less guarded. "That sounds like a story I would love to hear." 

As memories of his past pressed against his thoughts, the bright colors of the world that he had been admiring only seconds ago seemed to slowly bleed out. Maxwell smiled back at the man and shook his head silently. Sympathy filled his eyes and Maxwell could see now that they were grey. "Then again, I always found talking to be overrated." The mage continued on, taking everything in stride. "No, that's a lie. I've always found _other_ people talking to be overrated. I, on the other hand, am an excellent conversationalist." 

So the man talked and Maxwell listened. He told him little stories about the Circle-- riotous stories that left Maxwell gasping for breath, but he was never insensible enough to not notice the man never once mentioned the name of the Circle that he was from, or even his own name. Maxwell was content to let him dominate the conversation, occasionally interjecting a joke or two in his typical deadpan style that left the other staring with narrowed eyes before bursting with laughter. Night was falling now. Far in the distance thunder rumbled; a flash of lightning lit up the man's beautiful face, only to snuff it out again. New thunderclaps were heard, closer than before. Without a moment's thought, Maxwell took the man by the hand and pulled him inside the empty hut just as the thick clouds from this morning opened up to let loose the bursting rain they had been holding inside. Maxwell stood with the mage in the open door and watched the storm. Large scattered drops were being slung at the peach leaves; the sky hung over the earth, ready to fall. The old crone had taken her lighted grate and burrowed into a rocky outcropping. 

Together they shut the door against the howling squall. They were already drenched, but the mage was grinning like a child and Maxwell found that he was too. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to look at another man. Paying penance in a chantry didn't lend oneself to thoughts of pleasure. But thinking of that only reminded him of why he had been sent there in the first place, and Maxwell could feel reality beating against his head in time with the thunder. No, not quite. It was the sound of feet outside. 

The mage threw himself onto the old bed that sat in the middle of the room. It was one of the only pieces of furniture left that hadn't been looted or scraped for firewood. "A straw mattress! And now my fantasy of a rough tumble with a Southern barbarian is complete!" He crowed with a laugh. 

Maxwell remained standing in the middle of the room, however, unable to make up his mind whether to stay or go. Which was the Maker's will? If he really was the Herald of Andraste as everyone claimed, should he be doing this? It was pleasant here, and warm. But he could hear the demon just outside the door. Desire. What did it want from him? He wasn't a mage. 

The man sighed. "Cold feet?" He asked. His smile was not completely gone, but it had changed. "Well, we might as well go to sleep here. It's pitch-black and we'll likely die of pneumonia if we tried to go out, if we don't manage to break our necks in the dark first. Come on, lie down next to me. Are you afraid? Well, rest assured, my innocent dove, I won't bother you. Your virtue is safe with me." 

Maxwell pulled at the leather straps holding his armor together, letting the pieces fall where they may, and settled into the bed next to the strange man. He could feel the heat radiating from him, too hot for any normal human and knew he must be using his magic to keep them from freezing. He let himself sink into the warmth and quickly fell asleep. 

* * *

When Maxwell awoke, the mage was gone and the sky was bright and clear. Solas stood in the doorway, one brow cocked upward at him. He looked thoroughly unimpressed. "Cassandra is searching for you. If you wish to avoid her I suggest you leave now. You'll find Mother Giselle at the healing house. She would like to speak with you." 

The peace that had filled him was gone; irritation thrummed beneath his skin. Solas left without another word and Maxwell rushed to fit his breastplate over his torso, his fingers deftly fixing his armor to his body with the ease of many years of practice. When he was finally dressed he left the hut and made his way through the Crossroads and the tightly packed traffic that clogged the thoroughfare. He pushed his way through people and animals alike; every now and then his eye caught sight of raven-colored hair, and Maxwell's attention would be lost. But then he would see it was only a stranger, and not the mage from the night before. 

He found Mother Giselle kneeling before a wounded soldier. "Don't... don't let them touch me, Mother. Their magic..." 

"Turned to noble purpose," the cleric soothed. "Their magic is surely no more evil than your blade." 

"Mother Giselle?" Maxwell called. 

The woman stood at the sound of her name. She was a tiny, slender thing compared to him. Older than she looked, with a tender, thoughtful gaze that begged for trust. "I am. And you must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste." 

He never knew what to say when someone called him that. "I'm told you asked for me?" 

She gestured for him to follow her and they strolled silently away from the busy road toward a secluded glade not far from the healing house. It was another lovely spring day, but it lacked the magic that yesterday held and its beauty couldn't hold Maxwell's attention. "I know of the Chantry's denouncement, and I am familiar with those behind it," she finally spoke. "I won't lie to you: some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new Divine. Some are simply terrified. So many good people, senselessly taken from us..." 

"What happened was horrible." 

Mother Giselle sighed. "Fear makes us desperate, but hopefully not beyond reason. Go to them. Convince the remaining clerics that you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe." 

"Like what?" Maxwell finally snapped, his temper rising to the surface. Maker, Maker, Maker, all the time. It filled his thoughts until there was nothing left. He could have experienced a wonderful night with a handsome man, were it not for the Maker and doubt and demons. Why couldn't he -- and everyone else -- just forget about the Maker and fix the Breach not because He commanded it so, but simply because it needed to be done? "Am I suppose to convince them that the Maker chose me? That He's returned to help us? He hasn't. We're on our own, just like we've always been." 

Mother Giselle peered up at him and it rankled Maxwell to see the pity in her soft gaze. "I do not believe the Chantry is right when they say the Maker is gone. They think, because they are priests, that they are closer to Him than anyone else and it makes them think they are special. But you won't find the Maker in a monastery, but rather in the homes of men. Wherever you find a happy couple, that's where you find the Maker. Wherever there is children and petty cares and cooking and arguments and reconciliations, that is where the Maker will be. Don't listen to a cleric who sits on a golden throne. The Maker doesn't belong to the princes and the merchants; the Maker I believe in is a domestic one."


	3. Chapter 3

Therinfal Redoubt lay perched between Ferelden's valleys, beyond Lake Calenhad. It was built of grey stone and towered above the sprawling forest that surrounded it. Out of the sky the waters fell, not in drops, but in floods. The wolves and dogs howled, infuriated by the repeated thunderclaps. Plunged in impenetrable darkness, the fortress was frequently striped by the lightning flashes: the Maker seemed to be flogging it. The Templars were fallen face downward in their cells, beseeching Andraste to intervene on their behalves and put an end to the storm, the darkness, and their own doubts as their superiors grew increasingly strange and distant in the wake of the Divine's death.

The only light was in Ser Tavish's room. Tavish sat beneath the three-branched candelabrum in his cloistered cell and listened -- skinny, short of breath, his red veins running up his arms like a river, eyes closed -- to Delrin read to him from the Canticle of Erudition. 

"The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil and grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not touch. In the blackest envy were the demons born." 

Delrin felt uneasy and stopped. He no longer heard Tavish moan or drive his nails with agitation into the arms of his chair; no longer even heard him breathe. Could he have died? For days and days now he had vomited all food and lyrium that entered his mouth. The officers were no help. They refused to admit that Tavish was ill, saying only that if he died that it was the will of the Maker. If this went on any longer, Delrin would venture down into the Korcari Wilds himself in search of a hedgemage to heal him, his Order be damned. Delrin turned and looked at his friend. Beneath the three flames Tavish's head -- pitted like old, worm-eaten wood, roughened by the sun and fasting -- resembled the primordial rain-washed skulls of beasts Delrin had seen on the sides of roads in his travels. 

Delrin leaned forward to check if he still drew breath and all at once Tavish's eyes shot open and stared, wild, into Delrin's face. "I've heard Him," he breathed. "I've heard the voice of god. Not the Maker, and not that false prophet in Haven, but a _real_ god. He talks to me in my dreams. I can feel it in my teeth." He pulled back his lips and Delrin saw that the few teeth he still had left in his blackened, Blighted mouth were red and crystallized. 

"It's just the Fade, trying to trick you," Delrin soothed. "Nothing more. Don't trouble yourself with it." 

Tavish smiled sweetly like a child and closed his eyes again. Without a sound, the Templar fell tranquilly, gently, from his chair and down on his knees, rolling silently onto the flagstones. Delrin let out a strangled cry and leapt to help his friend. He heard many pairs of feet pounding into the room and the heavy wood door bouncing off of the grey stone as it was flung open; his comrades had all rushed to help at the sound of Delrin's distress. Someone grabbed the candelabrum and lowered it next to Tavish's shrunken, immobile face. His beard gleamed, his white robe had opened, revealing a rough hairshirt with sharp iron hooks that had embedded themselves into the man's bloody chest and flanks. 

Ser Ulric knelt beside Delrin and placed his hand over Tavish's heart. "He's dead." 

"He's joined the Maker now," said someone else. 

"John and Finley have left. They jumped over the West Wall into the river before the officers could stop them. They've gone back to their homes. Maybe we should think about doing the same," a third person whispered. 

"And what about the mages? We made an oath. We cannot abandon our duties." 

But while they talked and arranged to have water heated in order to wash the body, Tavish opened his eyes. The Templars recoiled in terror, their hands lifting to Smite the demon that had taken control of their friend's corpse. But nothing happened; it was no demon. Tavish's face was resplendent, his thin, long-fingered hands moved, his eyes were riveted ecstatically upon the air. 

Ser Ulric got down on his knees again and laid his head against his breast. "It's beating," he whispered. "He's not dead." But beneath the beating of his heart was another sound, one he could not place. With every breath Tavish took, Ser Ulric could hear stone scraping against stone. 

"This is no ordinary sickness!" Griselda exclaimed. She was young, barely sixteen, and still technically a recruit. Not that it mattered anymore. "I've tried to talk to Knight-Captain Adela, but she won't listen! This is a punishment! The Maker is punishing us for turning our backs on the Chantry!" 

A cold shudder ran down Delrin's spine, but he stood and clasped the girl's shoulder. He needed to be strong for them; they had no one now, not even the officers to lead them through these frightening times. "Have faith. The Lord Seeker has agreed to go to Val Royeaux to meet with the Chantry. Everything will turn out alright, you'll see."

* * *

Maxwell traveled down the well-worn, muddy road to Val Royeaux. He passed refugees by the hundreds, shoeless and dirty and silent, bowed down to the earth as they walked. Some fled the Breach, others the Templars and mages, and still more the civil war that threatened to splinter Orlais into pieces. Fires had swept across the Exalted Plains and the farmers lamented the loss of their crops. They carried nothing with them, chewing only on prophet's laurel to sate their hunger. Maxwell offered comfort and bread when he could, but the tide of people was endless. 

In the distance he could see the gleaming white-washed buildings and gold-capped domes of Orlais's capital city shimmering brightly in the sunlight. It was an imposing sight, full of statues, theaters, and painted courtesans. His horse sloshed through the mud, anxious to reach Val Royeaux and a warm, dry stable. It seemed a fool's errand to Maxwell, but he knew Mother Giselle was right-- if he wanted to end this madness he would need the Chantry on his side and the seat of the Chantry lay within the city. The people were paralyzed without its guiding hand. 

But as they approached its grand walls, the squalid masses sitting outside its gates revealed its rotten core. They scratched at their scalps and arms and legs, where the fleas had stuck themselves to. While the people lamented and cursed their own human Maker, the fleas praised the Great Flea Maker who had answered the prayers of His people, the fleas, by sending them dirty peasants to drink from by the thousands. Maxwell sighed. Fleas are the Maker's children as well as men, he reflected sourly, and the spirits and lions and dragons. He could hear someone puffing behind him. Heard him since he first set out from Haven. Cassandra and Varric were arguing up ahead and Solas rode silently to his left. "The demon is the Maker's creature too," he murmured. 

Solas shot him a curious look. "An interesting thought. I would not have expected a Templar to believe his Maker could have anything to do with spirits." 

It took Maxwell only a moment to realize that Solas believed him to be speaking in general terms. For all his expertise, he still hadn't noticed the extra companion that dogged their every step. "Spirits were the Maker's First Children," Maxwell said. 

"Then why kill them?" 

"For the same reason we kill fleas. The Maker made them too, but I don't see you advocating for their lives." 

"But they are not fleas. Though it is not like our own, spirits do have a kind of sentience. One dog may bite you, but that does not mean all dogs must be hunted to extinction." 

"A dog has its uses," Maxwell countered. "Unlike fleas. Or spirits." 

"Ignoring the fact that spirits are creatures just as deserving of life as any other, a spirit _does_ have its uses," Solas insisted. "Imagine a world without the Veil, where spirits--" 

Maxwell could feel his anger beginning to pulse through him. He could feel the hands of the poor and hungry reaching out to touch his boot and he had no more food to give them. He felt helpless. They were starving, and Solas wanted to talk nonsense. "Why bother imagining it? The Veil exists. That isn't something that will ever change." 

Solas looked away but Maxwell caught the flash of irritation in his eyes. "How typical of your kind, to dismiss anything that does not fit inside your limited world." 

"Oh? What kind do you mean? Templars, nobles, humans?" 

"Why limit yourself? Why not all three?" 

Maxwell let out a barking laugh that held no humor in it. They crossed the city gates and entered Val Royeaux, riding lightly across its grand boulevards and wide plazas. Towering colossuses of Andraste and Maferath and Hessarion flanked them on either side as they turned down the Avenue of Reflective Thought. As they passed, Maxwell saw one Orlesian lady let out a muffled scream from behind her porcelain mask. The crowds grew thicker, turning to stare up at the great barbarian who they believed killed the Divine. The pointed up at him and screams of "heretic!" and "murderer!" could be heard throughout the Summer Bazaar. 

In the distance, Maxwell could see a Revered Mother standing before a mass of people. Behind her lay the Miroir de la Mère and the towering Grand Cathedral rising up from its waters like the Eye of the Maker to watch over them. Templars stood beside her, which lent credence to her position. "What are the Templars doing here? I thought they had abandoned the Chantry. Do... do they seek to protect the people... from _us_?" asked Cassandra. 

"They can certainly try," Maxwell muttered darkly. 

"We don't want a pitched battle in the middle of Val Royeaux." 

"That's their choice, isn't it?" 

"Can't you talk to them?" Varric asked. "Didn't you used to be a Templar or something?" 

"I never actually made it passed training," said Maxwell. Cassandra let out an angry huff, like she always did when the subject of his past came up. 

"But surely you still have friends in the ranks?" 

"No." Without another word, Maxwell dismounted and handed his horse off to an elven servant who stood gawking in front of Le Masque du Lion Cafe. The youth quickly shut his mouth and rushed to stable the Inquisition's mounts. As soon as he took hold of the reigns, Maxwell turned toward the gathering crowd, his strides quick and long to get away from Varric. 

As he approached the Revered Mother, she lifted up her hands to call for silence and a hush fell over the thronging mass. "Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me! Together we mourn our Divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more! Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell." The crowd melted away from him, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the square. Not alone. There was the demon, always behind him, his breath hot on his neck. "We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond his selfish greed!" 

Anger raced through his veins like fire. "Enough!" He commanded. "I will not listen to these self-serving lies! We came here to talk!" 

"It's true!" Cassandra spoke out. She stepped up to stand beside him. Whatever doubts that lingered in her heart, she kept silent in the face opposition. "The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!" 

"It is already too late!" 

The discordant noise of armored boots crashing against cobblestone echoed throughout the plaza as a full regiment of Templars forced its way through the tightly packed people. Maxwell's hand lifted upward where the handle of his great maul rested against his back. He knew he shouldn't have listened to Mother Giselle, he should have never come here. But if the Templars wanted to arrest him, he would make them work for it. "The Templars have returned to the Chantry!" The Revered Mother spoke. She looked triumphant, as though she had ridden into battle and slain an Archdemon alone. "They will face this 'Inquisition' and the people will be safe once more!" 

Suddenly there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh. It exploded across the market and Maxwell watched as the Revered Mother dropped to the ground, face-down, blood oozing slowly from the back of her head. The Templar who had struck her stepped over her prone body to face Maxwell. "What is the meaning of this?" Maxwell demanded, the grip on his maul tightening and readying to strike. Screams erupted all around him as the people fled. A battle was brewing in their streets and no one wanted to be caught up in it. The only ones who stayed were the clerics. They rushed to the Revered Mother's side, pulling her up as she moaned in pain. She blinked blearily in the light, like a calf, the arrogance washed from her face. Against his own wishes, Maxwell could not help but feel pity for her as his disgust against the Order grew. 

"Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own." The Templar said it as though that explained beating a defenseless woman, and a Revered Mother no less. 

Cassandra leapt in front of Maxwell, desperate to salvage something from this meeting. "Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak with--" 

The Lord Seeker pushed passed her, his armor ramming roughly into her shoulder so that she staggered back into Maxwell's chest. So this was Lord Seeker Lucius Corin, the man who had turned the Templars against the Chantry and fought the mages across Thedas. He was older than Maxwell thought he would be; his face had taken on the soft, buttery appearance of old age, but his body still seemed as strong as a young tree. "You will not address me." 

"Lord Seeker?" 

"Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste's prophet. You should be ashamed." The Lord Seeker finally turned to face her, though he looked at her like she was nothing more than a rat crawling across his boots. "You should all be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones that have failed! You who'd leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine." He moved away in disgust, the Templars falling in line behind him. 

"Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?" Cassandra asked aloud as she watched them march from the city. Maxwell could hear the horror creeping into her voice. "He spoke as if... as if he believed himself to be in a _state of grace_." 

Maxwell stared at her in astonishment. "I thought the Seekers investigated corruption within the Templar ranks?" 

"We do--" 

"Then how can you not know?" Maxwell demanded. "This has been a long, slow process. I saw it ten years ago when I was just a recruit. They believe their actions to be Andraste's will. If they kill, it is because Andraste willed it. If they sin, it is because the mages tempted them and it is the mages who are punished, not them. They think in circles so that they can absolve themselves of any misdeed, twist it so that even their most despicable crimes are not only forgiven, but divinely mandated. They need to be stopped. They can't be allowed to continue." 

"And what do you intend to do about it?" 

Maxwell turned at the sound of a new voice behind him. An elven woman in a simple dress and hooded cloak stood in the middle of the empty street. Wrinkles clung to the edges of her mouth and eyes, but beneath the shadows of her hood that half obscured her face he could see there was real beauty there. "Grand Enchanter Fiona?" Cassandra asked. 

"Leader of the Mage Rebellion. Is it not dangerous for you to be here?" Solas aked. 

"I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes." 

Maxwell sighed and sheathed his weapon, shrugging his big arms as if to say, 'here I am.' 

A small smile graced the Grand Enchanter's face at the childish gesture. "Your people seek to fix the Breach. My people could help with that. Despite your background, it appears we have similar goals. You are right: the Templars need to be stopped. It disgusts me to think of the Lord Seeker getting away with killing the Divine." 

"You think he was behind the explosion at the Temple?" 

"He hardly seems broken up over his losses. And you saw him; he's mad. So, yes, I think he would kill the Divine just to turn the people against us." 

"What do you propose then?" Maxwell asked. 

"Come to Redcliffe, meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all." 

"Alright," he said. "But first I must see to the Templars. They're dangerous. If they hear of us talking, they'll think it a declaration of war." 

Grand Enchanter Fiona bowed her head. "Agreed. Au revoir, my Lord Herald, I will await for you at Redcliffe."


	4. Chapter 4

Therinfal Redoubt stood opposite to him, squatting upon the iron-colored, rocky slopes of Ferelden. Dark and imposing, it dwarfed even the thick pines that surrounded it. To Maxwell, it seemed devoid of all warmth and life. The spring rains continued to pour from the sky, turning the world muddy and grey. Flowers choked to break through the paved flagstones; only the wild prickleweed brambles managed to survive and they strangled the life out of every plant that tried to grow in their shadows. Along the circumference of this inhuman desolation someone had hung the Templar standard: the fiery sword against a field of red. As always his heart burned at the sight of it and Maxwell struggled with his feelings of rage. Even ten years in a cloister had done little to settle him. _Is there no hope my heart may grow calm?_ He asked himself.

His horse grew skittish as a carriage rode up beside him, forcing him to pull on the reigns to keep her from bolting forward. Behind the silk-covered windows Lord Esmeral Abernache waved at him. Hardly a handful of weeks had passed since the Lord Seeker's display in Val Royeaux, but since then most of the great lords and ladies of Orlais had pledged their allegiance to Maxwell. Whether they truly believed him to be the Herald of Andraste or not, it didn't matter. Their soldiers were fighting a long and bloodied civil war, and now their Templars had stripped them of their last defense. They had no one to protect them from the Breach and the growing rifts in the Veil that were unraveling like a spool of thread. Better to throw their lot in with Maxwell -- murderer or no -- than face the coming threat alone. And although it rankled Maxwell to accept these arrogant, foolish lords as his allies, he too had no choice. He needed to get into Therinfal Redoubt. He needed their hired swords. 

"It is not unlike the Second Dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales, don't you think, my Lord Herald?" Lord Abernache called from his seat. "The Lord Seeker is willing to hear our petition about closing the Breach. A credit to our alliance with the Inquisition. Care to mark the moment? Ten Orlesian Houses walk with you." Maxwell ground his teeth together. What right did this soft noble have to sound so arrogant? If he truly believed in the Inquisition's cause he should have joined ages ago, not just when it became convenient for him. If only he had the power to force people to always do what was right, the world would be a better place. 

Lord Abernache believed this to be a mission of alliance, of recovery; he had no idea Maxwell was only using him as a cover. Lord Seeker Lucius had grown insane with his need for glory and importance; Maxwell alone could not garner an invitation, but a retinue of Orlais's finest and richest had managed to turn the Lord Seeker's head. And once inside, Maxwell's forces -- the Inquisition's forces -- would take the keep. Commander Cullen only waited for the signal. The Inquisition was a young organization, it's army small-- mostly consisting of a few regiments of mercenaries and sellswords. But they were growing, and together with these nobles it would be enough to take Therinfal Redoubt. The rank and file of the Templar Order would be spared, at least all those that would agree to submit, but not the officers, not the Lord Seeker. Maxwell would see them tried for their crimes. 

A small contingent of Templars stood in the courtyard to await them as they rode through. Two black mabari barked at them as the line of carriages circled around the large yard, the lords and ladies stepping lightly into the mud and manure as they dismounted with the help of their footmen. Cassandra, Varric, and Solas followed behind with the multitude of servants and guards the Orlesians had brought with them, on horseback like the Herald. Maxwell eyed the Templars as he dismounted, allowing them to lead his horse into the stable to be unsaddled and brushed down. The Lord Seeker was not there, despite his enthusiasm of such lofty company coming to pay him court. In fact, there was not a single officer among the Templars to greet the delegation. It simply was not done. Did they know about the ambush? Had Maxwell walked into a trap? 

One of the Templars approached him. He was a handsome, earnest-looking man, but young. "I present Knight-Templar Ser Delrin Barris," he heard someone say. "Second son of Bann Jevrin Barris of Ferelden. Ser Barris, may I be so honored--" 

As soon as his eyes fell on Maxwell, Ser Barris pushed his way past the man to meet the Herald. "I heard the Inquisition works to close this Breach in the Veil," Ser Barris said in lieu of a greeting. "This promise of status has garnered interest from the Lord Seeker. Beyond sense. The sky burns with magic but he ignores all calls to action until your friends arrived." He sighed, and suddenly it seemed as though years had passed, deepening his youthful face into craggy old age. "The Lord Seeker's actions make no sense. He promised to restore the Order's honor, then marched us here to wait? Templars should know their duty, even when held from it. If you win over the Lord Seeker, I promise you every able-bodied knight will help the Inquisition seal the Breach." 

Maxwell regarded the man in front of him, the half-hidden desperation in his green eyes. His heart grew softer at the sight. This was a man who understood what needed to be done, who did not worry about his own greed and status when there were wrongs to right. If only more men were like him. Perhaps there might be. Ser Barris couldn't be the only Templar who thought such traitorous things. Maxwell was living proof of that. The Order was fractured now more than ever. This might needn't be a bloody battle after all. He could have the mages and the Templars. "If you think we're right, abandon the Lord Seeker and help us." 

Ser Barris glanced down. "We can't abandon our orders. Not while the officers who survived the Conclave follow him. And not... not with who you are. Some of the older Templars were friends with Braun, but the younger ones... They would be willing to follow you, if you gave them a reason." 

Maxwell barked out a laugh. And here he had hoped Barris would have the courage to step up without all this song and dance. "You mean an excuse. Alright, take me to him." 

"The Lord Seeker has a... request before you meet him," Ser Barris said as he escorted the company into the keep. A wind had arisen; the light drops of rain swirled over the dust and flagstones. The air grew dark. Gaping in the middle of the yard was some strange contraption of flags, so that, when a wheel fixed to the ground was turned, they could be lowered up and down Therinfal Redoubt's wall. "These are the standards. An honored rite, centered on the people, the Maker, and the Order. The Lord Seeker asks that you perform the rite so he may see the order in which you honor them." 

As always his patience bled out, and the black wrath filled him instead. "If the Lord Seeker wants to analyze the Inquisition, let him do it when we meet," Maxwell rebuked sharply. 

"Not the Inquisition," Ser Barris corrected, his voice dropping low. "The Lord Seeker changed everything to meet you. Not the Inquisition-- _you_. By name." 

"Why?" 

"I don't know. He's been fixated on you ever since your horde of nobles arrived." 

"The Lord Seeker makes us shuffle flags around?" Lord Abernache demanded as he came to stand next to Maxwell. "Refuse! Let's meet the man already." 

As loathed as he was to agree with anything Lord Abernache said, they had no time to play games. They needed to put an end to this farce. "The Lord Seeker cannot delay any longer, Barris. Take us to him."

* * *

Inside the keep, Maxwell could hear the dark tempest rise up to sling mud and water against the thick, stone walls. A fiery east wind arose from the sea, bringing with it the spring and the storms. The mabari tried to bark but their mouths filled with water and they remained still. The horses, glued to their posts, closed their eyes and waited. 

Maxwell leaned back further in his chair, trying to ignore the way his shoulders and neck tensed with every second. They had been waiting for the Lord Seeker for the better part of an hour now, though it was difficult to be sure of the exact time. He couldn't see the sun from his position beside the window; the dark, thunderous clouds had blanketed the entire sky, blocking even the Breach from view. Ser Barris was growing increasingly agitated as Lord Abernache needled him, demanding to know why he was being made to wait, that he was a _very important man_. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cassandra's hand flex. She itched to grab the hilt of her sword. She caught his eye, the minute shake of his head, and pulled back her hand to stand at something approximating parade rest. He understood her restlessness; he felt it too. For a man who leapt at the chance for pomp and circumstance, the Lord Seeker didn't seem too concerned about his standing among the nobility. The entire situation was strange and it made him uneasy. It felt like a trap. More than once he contemplated breaking the window and having Solas send up the signal to charge; but it was better to wait, better not to tip their hand until they knew for sure. 

At the sound of the door opening, Maxwell was on his feet. The man who entered was not the Lord Seeker, however, and he eyed the two archers that flanked the unknown Templar. Their bows were already in their hands but not yet notched. The air in the room suddenly shifted. Maxwell took a step forward, ostensibly in greeting, while Cassandra moved over to his left -- not too close, but not far enough away for it to strike the Templars odd -- while Solas and Varric shuffled back a few paces, turning their heads slightly as though to give their "betters" privacy. It left them in an easy position to flank the Templars if they decided to attack. 

"Knight-Captain?" Ser Barris asked, looking between him and their guests as his confusion mounted. Only Lord Abernache remained unaware of the hostility that rolled over the room in waves. 

"You were expecting the Lord Seeker," the Templar said. "He sent me to die for you." 

Lord Abernache suddenly gasped as he learned forward slightly, trying to catch a peek through the slits in the Templar's helm. Whatever he saw made him recoil in revulsion and he stepped away, whispering as he pressed past Maxwell, "He is not well." 

Desperate, Ser Barris tried again. "Knight-Captain Denam, I brought the Inquisition's representatives. Will the Lord Seeker not see them?" 

Knight-Captain Denam did not bother to look in Ser Barris's direction, instead keeping his eyes trained on Maxwell. "So, this is the Herald of Change? You are why everything must be moved ahead. I tried to make us ready, I thought I knew the way." 

"Knight-Captain, I must know what is going on!" Ser Barris demanded, no longer able to ignore the man's strange behavior. 

The Templar finally turned to look at him, as though seeing him for the first time. Between the slats, Maxwell could see the Knight-Captain's red, pock-marked features twist in rage as he stared at Ser Barris. "You are all supposed to be changed! Now we must purge the questioning knights!" 

That was when Maxwell noticed the sounds of clashing metal and screams outside the castle walls, hiding beneath the roar of thunder and rain and wind. Fighting. It was a trap. With a shout of rage, Maxwell heaved his maul from its sheath to bring it crashing down on one of the archer's heads. The man's forehead crumbled inward as bits of skull and blood and brain pierced through the skin of his face like wet parchment until Maxwell's armor was dripping with it. "The Elder One is coming! No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!" Denam screamed and then there was nothing but chaos. 

Lightning and snow raged between the breaking of swords and arrows. Lord Abernache was dead-- no, he was alive and crawling, wiping at the blood pouring into his eyes from a shallow cut on his forehead. Cassandra hacked at the sliver of exposed skin between the helm and breastplate of one of the Templars as he struggled to get away from her, half-decapitated and his head wobbling precariously on what bone and sinew was left. Maxwell turned away to face his next opponent, the Knight-Captain himself, and swung out with his maul. He heard Denam's armor buckle and groan from the force of it. The Knight-Captain collapsed, alive but his breaths sounded heavy and wet. Ser Barris was panting and wiping the blood from his blade onto his skirt, the bodies of his former comrades lay strewn in a heap at his feet. "We should question the Lord Seeker about this," he said. He sounded calm, but Maxwell could see that his eyes were glazed and distant. He wouldn't break -- not now, not when there was work to be done -- but after the battle there would be a reckoning. 

Maxwell nodded. "Agreed. Solas, send up the signal. Ser Barris, lead the way. We will follow." 

Outside, a battle raged as Templar turned against Templar. Maxwell raced through the keep, hearing the sounds of his own army crashing against the front gate like a wave upon the rocks. Already the wood was beginning to warp. In a few minutes it would splinter and crack open, allowing Commander Cullen and his men to pour through. The Templars could not hope to keep them out. They, along with the Orlesian guards, would swarm over the castle like ants devouring the carcass of a butterfly. Maxwell ran past the fighting, keeping hot on Barris's heels, striking any and all who dared to think of stopping him. The Lord Seeker would pay for his treachery, he would see to that. 

And there he was, standing at the entrance to the Main Hall with his back to him and staring up at the dark, storming clouds, smiling like a man might on a clear and sunny day. Maxwell slowed his approach, his stomach curdling at the sight. He looked mad. Maxwell lowered his maul, reaching out with one hand to touch the Lord Seeker. Before he could get too close, the Lord Seeker turned and grasped him by the shoulders, pulling and snarling, his face twisting into animal-like rage. Green light pierced his eyes and for a moment he could see nothing, nothing but the green. 

He blinked, and blinked again, and found himself standing in a crypt, the twisted corpses of those that perished at the Temple of Sacred Ashes all around him. They kneeled, their withered hands grasping at their faces in horror, the mouths and eyes burned away-- still burning, down a line, showing him the way. Maxwell felt his heart rage at the sight of them. Unlike Cassandra and Mother Giselle, he believed the Chantry when it said the Maker turned His back on the world. How could He have let this happen otherwise? The breath of the Maker was a scorching wind, a flash of lightning; not a peach tree in bloom. He twisted the hearts of men and let them wither. What could they do to make His expression grow sweeter? Sing like Andraste? They had been singing for centuries now. 

Out of the darkness, his father stepped forward. The old Bann looked much the same as he had the day Maxwell left the Templars for the Chantry: his beard streaked with more gray than brown, his long craggy face peering at him from beneath bushy brows. "Is this shape useful? Will it let me know you?" He asked, his lips pulling back into something like a smile. "Everything tells me about you." That wasn't his father.

Maxwell was suddenly aware that he was no longer holding his maul and he felt defenseless in the face of this monster. Anger thrummed beneath his skin and he clenched his fists, surging forward. "You don't fool me, demon, I see through you!" 

The demon laughed, his father's features pulling this way and that like a marionette. "'I see through you!'" His own voice echoed in the Bann's throat. "You can't stop me. I am Envy. Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker. Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You'll see. When I'm done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will _be_ you." 

"Who or what is this Elder One?" 

More laughter and the demon wearing his father's face crept back into the shadows, disappearing from sight. "He is between things. Mortal once, but no longer." 

Maxwell followed the voice, deeper into the twisted nightmare realm. He was in the Fade. He must be. But where was the Desire Demon that had dogged his steps for weeks now? This was its domain, but for once he could no longer hear it creeping behind him. Did it fear this new demon? He turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of his curse, only to see a shadow of himself, its eyes burning green. Two of Cullen's soldiers stood at attention in front of the false Trevelyan. "Our enemies have surrendered unconditionally," one of them spoke. 

"The Inquisition's strength rivals any kingdom in Thedas," said the other. 

A voice erupted from the shadow-- Maxwell's, but underneath his own rumbling baritone he could hear the Envy demon's true voice turning the words sharp and raspy. "Our reach begins to match my ambition, but we will strive for more." 

"Is imitating what you can't have your only pleasure, demon?" Maxwell demanded. 

"Accusing..." The Shadow mused. "Trying to find my weakness. Is that the man you are?" 

More scenes flittered before his eyes. His army -- _his_ army, not the Inquisition's -- marching with their standards raised high. His Shadow self sitting on a golden throne, a tyrant that had forced the entire world beneath his heel. All the injustices he had witnessed, all the thoughtless cruelties people inflicted on one another would disappear because he would force them to obey. It had been an idle thought of his in passing; nothing he had ever really taken notice of. He had seen the perversions of the Templars, the lack of regard the nobility had for the common people, the self-righteous ignorance of the Chantry; and he had thought, _the world would be a better place if I had the power to make them listen to me_. "You little hypocrite. So many temptations," Envy laughed. "You cannot resist them all. I see your Pride, and Rage has long been a friend of yours. You've been intimately acquainted with Despair these last ten years and--" His Shadow self twisted, becoming the dark-haired, proud-gaited mage he had met at the Crossroads. He laughed and his teeth flashed in the green light. "And who can forget Desire?" The silky, mocking tone asked. "I will know them all and when I become you I will transform the Inquisition into something truly great, something that you could only dream of." 

Suddenly he felt a presence approach him from behind. The Desire Demon! It was back! But... Maxwell had never felt so calm as he did now. "Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You, not Envy." He turned his head and saw a boy. No, not Desire, but another spirit of some kind. Maxwell was getting very tired of spirits and the Fade and everything else he couldn't understand. Before he could open his mouth to give the spirit-child a sharp reply, he felt its fine-boned hand grasp his wrist and then there was a blinding flash of light.


	5. Chapter 5

Maxwell climbed, his breath puffing out in harsh pants, though he felt no air pass through his lips, nothing stirred in his lungs. He did not even feel tired, truly, but his body mimicked what it expected in the real world. "Up! Up!" The spirit-boy called, a fleeting snowflake driving him like a gadfly. "We must go higher!" 

But it was harder with the claws stuck in his head. They were his own human hands, turned gnarled and twisted, the fingernails yellow and long. They dragged across his brain and memories bloomed in the furrows. He couldn't hear Desire anymore, but Maxwell felt him there, clasping on his back like a child, the briefest kiss pressed against his neck as the Herald meditated on the Fade and devils and the heart of man. No, the Fade and its devils were not beyond the Veil; but in the breasts of men, in the breast of the most virtuous, the most just. Even in Andraste. The Maker was an abyss, man was an abyss, and Envy cracked it open while Desire laughed. 

Maxwell felt his knees buckle for a brief second, that infinite weight on his back pushing him down until he collapsed, falling forward onto his hands in some muddy courtyard that looked very much like the one in Therinfal Redoubt. Were it not for the tendrils of green wisps shooting from cracks in the earth, he might have mistaken it for the real thing. The spirit-boy fell silent. Nothing stirred the unnaturally quiet air. 

Suddenly there was a sweet, piercing hiss from the yard. A large snake, black with white patterns, crawled up from the old well that seemed, at times, only a few feet away from where Maxwell kneeled, and at other times, miles from him. It lifted its swelled neck, vibrated its tongue, and hissed. Never in his life had Maxwell heard a flute more seductive than this snaky throat. Now and then during those years in the cloister, Maxwell had dreamed of a man and he would appear to him like this, like a snake which slid over the mat where he slept, put his tongue in his ear, and hissed... 

Little by little, other snakes emerged from the dried-up well or out of the grass, or from out of the dirt: one with a blue hood, another green with two horns, others yellow, dappled, red... Quickly, like water, they slid forward and joined the first snake, the decoy; they strung themselves all together, rubbed one against the next, licked each other: a snaky cluster of grapes hung in the middle of the yard. A battle raged somewhere beyond the Veil, and right in the middle of it, the snakes mate. The Maker puffs and wants to incinerate the world, and up come the snakes to make love! 

Two sparkling eyes watched Maxwell kneel insensibly in the courtyard. Hunched up into a ball, rocking on his toes, Cole leaned forward. If the man couldn't make it... if he lost the will to fight... Cole would make sure he remained free of Envy's clutches. Come... come... come... Cole murmured within himself, the knife squeezed in his fist against his breast. Come... come... come... he murmured, and watched the Herald struggle to regain his senses. 

His mind followed Maxwell's back to Ostwick where he was born. Squirming Pride twisting in his veins like snakes as he pummeled the man that cowered underneath him, white hot Rage lacing through Maxwell's heart at the words that had slithered from the Templar's mouth. But what pulled Cole in was Despair, thick and cloying and wrapped so sweetly around Maxwell like a lover. Despair over what he had done, despair over what he had _not_ done. 

A voice rose up beneath the hissing. "Betrayed allies will curse your name! Like the first Inquisition you will bring blood and ruin and fear!" It screeched. 

"Unless you don't," Cole said quickly. Maxwell yanked his head up and the knife disappeared. "You don't have to. None of this is real unless you let it be." 

Maxwell wrenched himself to his feet, anger tearing at his body and mind. He climbed higher and higher, the spirit-boy somewhere behind him, whispering encouragement, his feet blessedly silent. Maxwell felt as though he was clawing his way up into the Breach, into the arms of the Maker where his body would crumble into ash and he would be nothing but a thought, a blissful memory that knew only peace. Envy's tendrils, stretched so thin that Maxwell could hear them creak as he struggled against them, tried to pull him back under. 

He burst into open air, his fists punching through the green surface to grasp hold of the demon in front of him. It no longer wore the face of the Lord Seeker; instead, the pale, white thing writhed in his grasp like a worm, twisting and bending its shape to scurry free. "The Lord Seeker!" Ser Barris exclaimed. 

Maxwell breathed sharply through his nose, the stench of smoke and blood clinging to his mouth and nostrils. "No, an imposter." His heavy, horse-headed maul was back in his hands and he gripped it tightly, fingers straining as he stared through the open door where the demon had fled. He shook off the smoky tendrils of the Fade that still tangled in his hair, his back lighter now that Desire had slipped off. He gave no thought to the spirit-boy, or to old memories, or anything else except the rage that propelled him forward, into the Main Hall and through the archway that led to the dilapidated garden where Envy had retreated, hurt and exposed. He didn't notice the sounds of many feet rushing to follow, not even cursed Desire's. 

"I touched so much of you," a voice whispered. Maxwell dimly recognized it as Envy, but weaker now, more strained and raspy. "But you are selfish with your glory. Now I'm no one!" 

Envy erupted from the ground legs first, twisting its spider body until the misshapen tumor that served as its head faced Maxwell. "Dark and desperate, death to make yourself alive. I used to be like you. I'm not anymore. You shouldn't be either." The spirit-boy stood by Maxwell's elbow, the crown of his hat barely reaching the man's chest. Here, outside of the Fade, the spirit-boy looked like a corpse. His sunken, white features protruded sharply from his skull-like face. Even his lips were bloodless. Maxwell swore at the sight of him. There was another one that followed him across the Veil. 

The demon erupted into a terrible scream that shook his very bones. With a yell of his own, Maxwell swung forward with his maul, only for the head to pass helplessly through it as the demon disappeared in a wisp of light. He twisted around, trying to pinpoint where it may have gone, when the sharp _twang_ of Bianca alerted him to Envy's resurrection. He turned and saw the demon halfway out of the ground, turning in its partially dug grave with an arrow stuck deep into its neck. It writhed, slipping on the strewn cobblestones, like a fish on a hook, and Maxwell wasted no time or pity for it as he brought his maul crashing down. 

Again, he lifted his weapon, and again he brought it back down. The stones were streaked black with demon blood and the headless, many-armed worm lay motionless at his feet. But the claws had driven deep into Maxwell and he couldn't bring himself to stop. How dare this creature try to take him. He would kill it. He would kill it. He would-- 

A shock of cold brought Maxwell back to his senses. Solas's frost-covered hand had a grip on his shoulder, but it was the look of pity that plunged him back into reality. Maxwell pulled himself away, glancing at where Cassandra and Varric stood. Varric fiddled with his crossbow, as though to give him some illusion of privacy, but Cassandra's carefully blank, green-tinged face looked starkly at him. He must look every bit the murderer Cassandra secretly thought him to be. It churned inside him, because it wasn't untrue, in more ways than even she knew. In desperation, he cast about, looking for something to seize upon, to rid himself of this scene. The spirit-boy had disappeared again, and so Maxwell looked for a new distraction and his eyes fell upon Barris. Ser Barris stood half-covered in the shadows of the arch, his jaw clenched so tight Maxwell could see it tremble. Behind him stood some fifty Templars, looking like the lost, soft-headed calves that they were. 

Anger flared up again, though duller now that it had been partially sated. He looked at these men and women who had been broken under the wheel of the Chantry and what they had allowed themselves to become. What he almost became. "The demon is dead. Andraste be praised, she shielded you from its touch," Ser Barris proclaimed, but he spoke without emotion, like a man standing before the gallows. "We've numbers across Thedas, but we let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it, or were complicit. The Templars are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us." 

Maxwell looked back at the touch of green peeking through the drizzle of rain. "That's our enemy. The Breach won't be overcome with words. Hope won't make it disappear. If Templars still stand against ruinous magic, this is the moment to fulfill your pledge." 

"You speak truths we never should have ignored. But the Order is leaderless, gutted by betrayal. We must rebuild it." 

"There's no time," Maxwell spoke irritably. "If the old Order is too broken to stand, then become knights under the Inquisition! Serve us. Stop the Breach, and begin again without stain on your honor. _That_ is our offer." 

Ser Barris's cheek twitched but he turned smartly on his feet to address the bedraggled survivors of his Order. "If it is the only way... Templars, will we serve the Inquisition to atone for our failure?" 

With military precision, they moved. Bending on their knee, they prostrated themselves before Maxwell. "So be it." Something flashed across Ser Barris's face before he turned to look back at the Herald. Something lost and childish before being swallowed up by that soldierly mask. "The Order... the Order will disband and take up the Inquisition's banner. We'll need weapons, training grounds, a place to rest. The Inquisition must prepare for our arrival." 

"Oh, don't worry. I think we're expecting company."


	6. Chapter 6

Maxwell stood in what was once Redcliffe's main thoroughfare and stared at the empty, burnt-out huts. The mages had disappeared. They had packed what belongings they could and then simply... walked out of the village, never to be seen or heard from again. Why? What had happened? The Grand Enchanter had promised to await his return. She had agreed that the Templars were dangerous, that they needed to be brought to heel before any negotiations between them could occur. With the Order disbanded, she now had the advantage. Why throw that all away? Why abandon the one place that had offered them sanctuary? He had heard rumors as he passed Honnleath and the Crossroads. Whispers of Tevinters, missing Tranquil, and villagers tossed out of their homes by strange, red-robed mages. It couldn't be true. Fiona had made no mention of Tevinters in Val Royeaux, and anyway the timing didn't match up. Everyone said the Tevinters had been squatting in Redcliffe for months, but how had his own spymistress not even heard of this before now when Inquisition soldiers were stationed not a stone's throw away? Especially when they had made no secret of being there. Something strange was going on. 

" _Hands touch, rapid, back and forth. 'Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I've been to Denerim to visit the King.' If the Templars break through I'll kill the children myself._ " Cole hummed to himself as he stepped lightly between the broken bits of charred wood, pulling at whatever lingering despair filled the place and giving it voice. 

Cassandra shot Maxwell a withering look. "You should have left that thing where you found it." 

The Herald shrugged his big shoulders. "He's harmless." He didn't acknowledge the fact that with Cole nearby, Desire didn't follow so closely. 

"Like a flea?" Solas asked, the smirk on his face fully voiced in that oft-heard mocking tone that made Maxwell want to grind his teeth. 

Maxwell felt Solas's hooks drag him into another fight. "Oh? I take it you agree with Cassandra then?" 

"Not at all. I'm just surprised you don't." 

"The Herald and I disagree on many things," Cassandra broke in, quick to cut off the brewing spat at its knees. "We should head back. We have the Templars, if not the mages; their abilities should weaken the Breach, at least enough for Trevelyan to close it." 

"A theory only, and not one I believe likely to succeed. The mages are the surer bet." 

"Perhaps, but they are no longer here and we do not have time to hunt them across all of Thedas." 

Maxwell grunted in acknowledgment, his fist clenched tight with the urge to grab for his maul and hold it close like a child's toy. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones, in the magic that plucked at the air and made his insides twist. But time was running out and they did not have the luxury to linger. The mages knew where the Herald stood; if they so desired, they could seek shelter at Haven. He hoped they would. Maxwell turned to where his horse stood tethered, cropping at the long grass the broke through the loose boards and hastily dropped belongings. He mounted the beast and turned her towards Haven, toward the green light that shimmered like an emerald when the mist in the air caught the light.

* * *

Fire snaked up his arm, filling his veins with lightning. It twisted his joints, cracked and splintered his bones with the heat of it. Maxwell pushed on, fighting against the pain as the green crackled and poured from the Mark on his hand, dancing in time to the larger wound that lay before him. "Templars! Focus past the Herald! Let his will draw from you!" Solas's voice was swallowed up by the Fade, when it should have been booming, echoing against the stone crater that once housed the most holy of holies. 

The two tears reacted to each other's presence. The Breach pushed against the Mark and the Mark lashed out in retaliation. Maxwell wanted to cry out, to give voice to his pain, but the hot air he sucked into his lungs gave him no relief. It was like trying to breathe underwater and his chest burned with the effort of it. Beams of light shot down from the Breach, a pair of shapely legs stepping gracefully into the palm of his hand to dance, dipping their toes into the Mark. The moment they touched the rest of the Breach collapsed inward, falling down into his hand with enough force that he heard Solas and Cassandra scream in surprise. 

Maxwell blinked blearily up into Cassandra's dirty face, marked with bloody scabs from where she had been thrown back onto the rocky ground. He expected her face to glow with green, but he could only see the blacks and the browns and the grays. She yanked her gauntlet from her hand, reaching down to grasp his and pull him to his feet. Maxwell sighed as the cool touch of her skin brushed against the Mark. It was calm, aching with use but no longer splitting his hand in twain. For the first time, he saw Cassandra smile.

"You did it."

* * *

There was a warm, damp wind that blew through the mountains. The snowflakes hurtled all around them, only to melt in a puddle of ice water the moment they landed. Summer was high, and in the valleys the earth smelled of vine leaves and overripe grapes. The Frostbacks remained as cold and barren as ever, but with the wind came a new breath of air. Everyone was bright, everyone was happy. Laughter rang as loud as the tolling bells. The war was over and the Breach was closed. 

While nothing remained of it but a green scar winding its way across the sky, there was still much to do. Rifts dotted the countryside, the disappearance of the mages continued to puzzle those left behind, and a new Divine still needed to be chosen, but all of that could wait. The world had stood on the precipice of disaster. A little celebration was in order. Carts pulled by druffalo poured up from Honnleath, laden with happy peasants and a good harvest. The tinny sounds of little bells filled the air as carriage after carriage arrived from Orlais to pay their respects and give thanks to the Inquisition. Now that the impossible had been done, all the high-born nobles rushed to prove themselves. "I have always supported the Herald," they said to one another. "If it wasn't for _my_ contribution, none of this could have happened." 

Bunches of grapes, filled with their must, lay waiting in baskets stacked on carts and on the ground. The young girls, sparkling in the sunlight, had eaten whole clusters and smeared their faces with juice. The young men, panting in the full rage of youth, threw furtive glances at the giggling girls as they danced on the grapes. In every corner of Haven there were shouts and fits of laughter. Even the Templars smiled, the heavy weight of their guilt that hung around their necks like a noose loosened little by little as they stood staring up at the clear sky, proud of what they had helped the Inquisition to accomplish. 

Madame Vivienne, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, had just arrived amid the thronging merrymakers. Stretched out on a divan beneath a scarlet tent, she watched the ever-growing horde push their way into the village. She had caught a glimpse of the Herald -- the big barbarian standing head and shoulders above most humans -- but the poor thing had been swept away by so many well-wishers and sycophants that he looked half-drowned in the crush of bodies. Vivienne did not deign to join them; it was better to wait a few days for an introduction than be forgotten amid the multitude of faces as the next bastard son with half a claim to a title came up begging to be noticed. She desired more than that. 

Unbeknownst to Vivienne, a young elven woman in a ratty shirt and scuffed boots threw up two fingers in her direction. Sera hadn't arrived on a palanquin carried on the shoulders of down-trodden servants, but had walked across war-torn Orlais and the unrelenting Frostbacks on her own two feet to reach Haven, sometimes hitching a ride on a cart if she was lucky enough to find one with a driver who didn't mind sharing space with a suspicious elf. She rolled her eyes the moment she saw the noblewoman lying stretched across her couch, her thoughts raging. Everything came to this filthy dog just as she wanted it. How could a woman like her understand the next man's troubles? Even the Maker, who wiped others off the face of the earth for the jump of a flea, flattered and coddled this swine, this parasite, this lick-penny; kept her from suffering the slightest harm, fell over her like a woolen cloak in the winter, like cool linen in the summer. Why? What did He see in her? Sera knew women like her. She wouldn't lift a single finger to help the little people who toiled beneath her. _But, never fear, you old witch,_ Sera thought as she made a beeline for the tavern. _Red Jenny sees you._

A grey-skinned, horned giant pushed his way through the buzzing crowd, followed by a troop of men that looked more like heavily-armed circus performers than legitimate mercenaries. The Qunari peered through the thronging mass, trying to locate his target, when his eye strayed to a buxom, red-headed lass. She smiled, he winked, drawing a chorus of groans from the warriors around him. None of them made any protest, however. They simply trailed after their leader, washing their hairy shins as they prepared to enter the press to tread the grapes where the girl was already dancing. She spun, juice flying up beneath her feet, red curls tossing over her shoulders. She laughed as the Qunari scrambled up after her, flitting just out of his reach. The little lass's friends looked up at her giggles, spotted the handsome mercenaries clamoring into the press, and called up to them. One of the warriors, a Dalish woman, helped pull the girls into the press, her hands lingering on their waists, kissing the backs of their hands gallantly, and together they fell about, giggling. Sunk up to the knees, they stamped and trampled the grapes, stooping to pick up whole fistfuls, which they ate. Sometimes they danced hand in hand, sometimes each screamed and jumped by himself. The smell of the must had made the mercenaries drunk-- and the must was not all: there were the girls, bright as butterflies, jumping and laughing, breasts swinging beneath their peasant blouses. 

"On my honor," said the Qunari. "If the Ariqun came this very moment and said to me, 'Hey, Hissrad, I'm in the best of moods today, ask me a favor, any favor, and I'll do it for you. What do you want?'-- if she asked me that I would answer her, 'To tread grapes, Ma'am, to tread grapes for the rest of my life!'" 

"And not to drink the wine, blockhead?" A dwarf cried out. 

"No, from the bottom of my heart: to tread the grapes!" He did not laugh; his face was serious and absorbed. He stopped treading for a moment and stretched in the sun. His upper body was bare, and covered in white, knotted scars. He grinned, catching the little red-haired girl's eye as she looked at the play of muscles that bunched and stretched in the fading afternoon light. 

Night came quickly in the mountains, but the revelers raged drunkenly against it. Each time the musicians called for a break, the dancers pulled them back, begging, cajoling, offering drinks and money and kisses for just a little longer, please just one more dance. No one noticed the bells at first, not until Commander Cullen cried out, "Forces approaching! To arms!" 

The Qunari had been bouncing his prize on his knee, laughing into his drink at the funny, lurid descriptions she whispered into his ear between kisses and bites. In one swift movement, the red-haired peasant girl was left swaying on her feet, a big hand swatting her rear. "Get to the Chantry! Go, now!" The Qunari commanded, the drunken slur suddenly gone from his voice as though it had never been there. He grabbed at the axe he had left lying next to his seat, hefting it into his arms and peering through the darkness between the rivers of black shadows that crawled between the mountains. 

"You there, you have the advantage of a better view. What do you see?" 

The Qunari looked down to see a woman in a silk gown, her horned hennin a pretty imitation to the ones he sported himself. The staff in her hand spoke of her magic and her high status. She moved sedately through the rushing soldiers, her face the very picture of his old Tamassran whenever she caught him in the middle of some new mischief. He stood a little straighter and tried to shake off the lingering wine that had lodged between his ears, leaving his head feeling woolly and slow. "Several thousand on foot. Humans, mostly. Maybe some elves mixed in. You better take shelter in the Chantry. Don't worry. The Iron Bull will protect you." He lifted one trunk-like arm, flexing it for her benefit. 

She condescended to laugh. Ice shot up from the knuckles on her hand, like daggers for rings. "Aren't you precious?" 

"Wot's this now?" An elf girl hopped up the path to them, tugging one boot on while the other had been left untied. "There's thousands of them?" The bow strapped to her back was old and well-used. The Iron Bull glanced at her hands. They were large for an elf, brown from the sun and heavily calloused. "How many are us?" 

"Properly outfitted soldiers?" Iron Bull looked out across Haven, taking in the tents that dotted the snowy plains outside of the main gates. "I'd say about four hundred. There's some mercenaries, including my group, the Chargers, bringing it up to about five hundred. Perhaps we could add another hundred to it, if we're counting anybody who can decently wield a smithy's hammer or a butcher's knife." 

All three jumped as the gate suddenly swelled inward, shaking twice on its hinges as licks of fire spat underneath it. "If someone could open this, I'd appreciate it." A voice called from the other side. 

They watched as the Herald broke from his soldiers and strode toward the gate, pushing it open to reveal a dark-haired mage leaning heavily on his staff. Everything about him, from his clothes to his accent betrayed him as Tevinter. His gray eyes widened at the sight of the big warrior standing in front of him, before betraying some softer emotion, if not a little bit cynical. "Oh, it's you. I'm here to warn you. Fashionably late, I'm afraid." He wavered on his feet as he stepped forward, shooing off Cullen who raced to help. "Might exhausted. Don't mind me. My name is Dorian Pavus and I bring grave news from Redcliffe: an army of rebel mages right behind me. They are under the command of the Venatori, in service to something called the Elder One." He pointed to the swelling horde at a blonde woman standing next to a strange, misshapen man that towered over the marching humans, who would stand head and shoulders above even the Iron Bull. His face was twisted with Blight, decaying skin ripped open to allow shards of red lyrium to spring forth. "The woman is Calpernia. She commands the Venatori. And _that_ … the Elder One. They were already marching on Haven. I risked my life to get here first." 

The Herald and his commander spoke softly to one another, before Cullen pulled out his sword to address his waiting soldiers. "Soldiers, gather the villagers! Fortify and watch for advance forces! Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!" 

The Iron Bull blinked away the falling snow, falling harder now and sticking to where it would have melted only hours ago, now that the sun had disappeared. He watched the Herald race towards one of the trebuchets that stood like sentinels in front of the tiny village, his motley band behind him. The army was close enough now that the Iron Bull could see the clothes they wore, the color of their hair, the glint of their weapons. He saw the red robes of Tevinter mages, the terrifying helmets of Soporati gladiators, and the frightened eyes of their Southern traitors. The Iron Bull readied his stance, feeling more than seeing the two women on either side of him do the same. 

The fence was not fortified, nor was it tall enough to stop the Tevinters from pouring over. The only relief came from the mountains, where treacherous footfalls forced the army into straight lines that trickled down to where Haven sat nestled. The Iron Bull swung with his axe at the first Tevinter to break through the Inquisition's lines. He cleaved into the man's neck, down into his chest, before flinging the body from his blade to strike at the next one. Icy stalagmites erupted around him and he could hear the muffled thuds of arrows cutting through soft cloth and leather to pierce the flesh underneath. A triumphant cry broke through the din and the Bull looked up to see one of the trebuchets launch a flaming boulder into the side of the mountain. For a moment, he thought he could hear the rumble of the ocean. And then he saw it: snow, thickly packed, rushing like waves over the Tevinters that were unlucky to be caught in its path. In one blow, half of their army was gone. 

The Iron Bull laughed and then, quite suddenly, without him knowing how, he found himself on his back, the black bristles of his untrimmed stubble gone from the scorching heat. Fire raged all around him, the high winds whipping the flames around him into a cyclone. His ears were ringing as stumbled to his feet, his single eye immediately catching sight of the giant shadow that flew above the village. A dragon. A _fucking_ dragon. Taarsidath-an halsaam. 

Sera stared up at it with the look of some half-remembered fear from her childhood. "It's not a dragon! It's a bloody archdemon, it is!" 

Before the Iron Bull could answer they found themselves pushed back as the soldiers turned around and fled at the sight of the creature, nearly crushing them in their panic. They were forced to run with them, the Bull keeping his hands on the collars of his strange, new comrades, holding them up to keep them from being trampled. Vivienne squawked with indignation, but Bull ignored her, lifting both her and Sera up into each arm when they proved slower than him. "Move it! Move it!" Commander Cullen called for the retreat. "We need everyone back at the Chantry. It is the only building that might hold against that... that _beast_." 

The Chantry was filled with cowering villagers. The surviving soldiers surged inside, taking up every available space left so that the wounded had to lay on the feet of those who could still stand. The Bull saw the dark-haired Tevinter who had warned them of the coming invasion propping up a Chantry cleric who rasped wetly with every breath he took. The Herald stood next to him, his freckled face obscured by the long strands of his red hair. "Herald!" Cullen said, pushing his way through the crowd to reach the man. "Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us. There has been no communication, no demands. Only advance after advance." 

"There was no bargaining with the mages, either," said Dorian. "This Elder One takes what it wants. From what I gathered in Redcliffe, it marched all this way to take your Herald." 

The Herald shifted on his feet, his whole body one tightly coiled spring ready to break and snap. "I don't care what he wants. How do I stop him?" 

"Trust me, that is not information I would keep to myself." Dorian gave a little desperate laugh. "And such a promising start with the landslide. If only trebuchets remained an option." 

"They are," Cullen insisted. "If we turn the last of them to the mountains above us." 

"We're overrun. To hit the enemy, we'd bury Haven." 

"This is not survivable now. The only choice left is how spitefully we end this." 

Dorian sucked in a breath, flames peeking at the edges of his lips. "Well," he said, his voice affectedly flippant like some nobleborn wastrel who had just been served an Antivan brandy instead of an Orlesian wine. "That's not acceptable. I didn't race here only to have you drop rocks on my head." 

"Should we submit? Let him kill us?" 

"Dying is typically a last resort, not first. For a Templar, you think like a blood mage." 

"There is a path!" The wispy, blood-filled voice of the cleric broke through the brewing fight. "You wouldn't know it unless you made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape! She must have shown me! Andraste must have shown me... so I could... tell you." 

"What are you on about, Roderick?" 

"It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start, it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers... I don't know, Herald... if this simple memory could save us, it could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more." 

For a moment Maxwell only stared into the cleric's face, before nodding and turning to look at Cullen. "If that thing is here for me, I'll make him fight for it." 

"And when the mountain falls? What about you?" 

That was the last the Iron Bull saw of the Herald. He marched with the others, with Vivienne and Sera, with the Chargers, with the Herald's own companions -- the spymistress, the seeker, the dwarf, the elf, the commander, and the pretty ambassador -- down through the dungeons and into a secret passageway that led into a snowy field. And in the opposite direction, the Herald walked, through the front doors to face the Elder One.


	7. Chapter 7

Cassandra stood at the edge of the copse, staring out into the white darkness that had risen up in protest against the idyllic summer day. The snow poured from the heavens, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her, never mind a single man that was most likely dead. The Maker took the Divine, and now He saw fit to steal their Herald as well? Did He intend to leave them defenseless? For the first time in her life, Cassandra almost hoped that the Chantry was right, that the Maker really did turn His back to the world, because otherwise... if this was all according to His plan... then the Maker must truly hate them. 

Voices and laughter bubbled up from behind her. Two young, flushed soldiers came up to her. 

"Bad news, boss," they shouted, splitting with laughter. "It looks like the Tevinter's getting what's coming to him. The villagers have taken up stones and are hunting the bastard down in order to kill him!" 

"What Tevinter?" Cassandra demanded. "You mean the man who came to warn us?" 

The two drunk soldiers opened their mouths to reply, but Cassandra didn't stay to hear their answer. She could hear angry screams in the distance and saw a cloud of powdered snow rising up through the camp. Men were running; women were shouting, "Catch him! Catch him!" And before she had time to reach for her sword, the black-haired mage from before -- his robes torn, his staff gone, and his mana depleted -- fell at her feet. 

"Help!" He cried. "Call them off!" 

There was a part of her that recoiled from him, this magister whose people had slain so many innocents, but the other half -- the nobler half, she hoped -- quickly stepped up to shield him from the frothing crowd who demanded, if not justice, then vengeance to slake their grief. 

One man, an elf red with ale and drenched with sweat, strode over to her, bellowing, "Move, Seeker. We're taking him, with or without your permission-- in the name of Andraste and the Herald, Maker rest his soul!" 

That said, and before Cassandra could reply, the elf pulled his greatsword from his back and swung it at her. Cassandra leapt away before she could be struck, yanking her own sword from its sheath to block his next attack, their swords clashing with angry, echoing cries. But another man stepped up, a Templar this time, and seized Dorian by his robes before she could stop him. "Come, mage! Move!" He roared, hauling him across the snow. The crowd surged forward, pushing Cassandra farther and farther away as they grabbed the mage, lifted him up, brought him amidst boos and fits of laughter to a small clearing not far from camp and tossed him in. As the mage scrambled to his knees, the angry crowd circled him, loading their aprons and tunics with stones. 

He tried to reason with them, but his voice was drowned out by their shouting. The first rock struck him in the shoulder; the second on the forehead, the blood blooming from a cut along his hairline. Covered with wounds, he had collapsed in one corner of the clearing and put up his arms to protect his head. The men and women stood around the rim and looked at him, laughing. Those that had survived the destruction of Haven and witnessed the death of their beloved Herald thirsted for blood. If they could not have the head of the blighted Elder One and its Archdemon, then this one Tevinter mage would have to do instead. 

Cassandra sent the hilt of her sword crashing into the elf's temple. She threw his limp body to the ground and raced toward the crowd, her eye catching Cullen's and Leliana's as they followed quickly at her heels. "You will disperse immediately!" The commander shouted. "If that man is guilty of anything, then a court will decide his punishment! That is the law!" 

The Templar swung his whole body around and stood directly in front of them. "This man is a blood mage! A Tevinter snake! The only authority here belongs to me and my brothers!" The crowd swarmed around the Templar, murder glittering in the pupils of their eyes. 

"You are no longer a Templar! The Order is no more! You have _no_ authority! _None_!" 

Cullen stepped forward, and at once the Templar advanced directly at him. Leliana had her bow unstrapped and notched within seconds, her face impassive as she took aim. Cassandra, her sword already bloodied, took position beside them. Josephine Montilyet, the Inquisition's ambassador, huffed and gasped as she ran into the clearing, quivering at the sight. In front of her was the terrifying cut-throat mob of frenzied peasants and soldiers; squaring off across from them were only Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra, standing savage and mute. "Stop! They'll kill you!" She cried. "Please! We can talk about this!" 

Cassandra threw up an arm and pushed her back. "You keep quiet," she said. "Don't interfere." 

But just as the opponents were about to come to grips a happy cry was heard from the edge of the clearing. "The Herald is coming! The Herald is coming!" A sunburned youth jumped in front of them, panting and waving his hands. 

"Who's coming?" They all cried, circling him. "Who?" 

"The Herald!" Answered the youth, and he pointed behind him toward the thinning forest. "The Herald of Andraste-- there he is!" 

Everyone turned. The moon was peeking through the snow-heavy clouds, shining down on the figure of a man limping up the side of the mountain. His clothing was torn, his breastplate abandoned somewhere during his long trek. Cassandra dropped her sword and took a half-step forward, unable to believe her eyes. Maxwell was dead. The Maker had taken him from them. 

As Maxwell loped into camp, a swarm of dirty, tired survivors began to appear in his train. Meek and silent, they left their tents to follow in his shadow, reaching out with shaking hands to gently touch the flapping rags of his torn and bloodied armor. He ignored them all, his vision fixed on the circle of tents with their warm beds and beckoning fires. Maxwell suddenly halted, blinking at the multitude in the clearing in front of him. He frowned and squinted, like a blind man, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The villagers that had swarmed the clearing stood motionless, watching him back, their mouths open, some still holding rocks high above their heads. Even Dorian had lifted his head at the silence that had fallen over the crowd. He caught Maxwell's hazel eyes and got to his knees, crying out, "Herald!" 

Maxwell heard the voice, recognized it and quivered. In two long strides he was there, pushing his way through the crowd to reach the mage. Dorian had begun to climb to his feet, scrambling in his desperation. Maxwell stooped and held out his hand. Dorian grasped it and allowed the Herald to pull him up, staggering for only a moment, puffing and covered in blood. 

The Templar rushed over. "Don't!" He bellowed, lifting the stone he still carried in his hand. "That blood mage will poison you! He'll turn you into a thrall! He's the reason why we lost Haven! Why we almost lost _you_! I'll kill him! Death!" 

"Death! Death!" The people howled in their turn, afraid now that their sacrifice would escape. 

Maxwell surged forward and grasped the man's arm. "Ulric," he said, his voice tranquil and sad even as he squeezed, feeling the bones creak beneath his fingers. "Do you really think you are in a position to judge? You? When you and your brothers blindly followed the orders of Envy?" 

He turned to the howling multitude and looked at each person, one by one, slowly. "You are _all_ guilty! None of you are free to judge this man, when he has done nothing but try to help! If anyone so much as lifts a hand against him I will cut you down where you stand! I swear this by Andraste-- She who chose me and shielded me from death! Your Herald!" 

The masses stirred; one by one the people stepped back, struggling to escape this clawing look which was excavating their memories. The Herald's eyes had lost the flakes of brown and blue, looking vivid and green in the pale moonlight, churning with the Fade itself. Slowly, their hands fell to their sides and the stones they held slid to the ground. They did not turn away in shame, as Maxwell had expected them to, but instead stood transfixed, their eyes never leaving their Herald. They looked at the haggard warrior and could not bear to leave. They waited. Maxwell returned their look. He too was waiting; he felt that all these souls were suspended from his neck. What did they want of him? What were they seeking? They themselves did not know. 

He felt what little energy he had left drain away. He turned and walked out of the clearing, towards a pitted granite hill a little ways from the camp, farther and farther away from the warmth he desperately wanted to surround himself with. Dorian supported him, and he supported Dorian, and together the two of them climbed up on it and sat down. The air was sweet and smoky from the fires and Maxwell breathed in the scent, stretching his lungs even as his bruised ribs groaned in protest, his fingers tracing some ancient heathen carving that had been cut into the hill. The villagers followed him, clawing up the hill to ask what had happened. Had the Elder One been defeated? Did the Herald slay the Archdemon? 

Two bronzed Vashoth were returning to the camp, exhausted and overheated, each with a large basket of fish balanced on her head that they had snared from a hole that had been cut into the icy lake. They took one look at the strange gathering, the hungry people sitting pressed against each other, staring up with beatific expressions at the Herald and Dorian, and attached themselves to the rear of the procession. Vivienne peered out from the healing tents, her silk gown rusted red with the blood of those she killed and those she saved. Curious, she abandoned the tent and went to the front of the crowd, enthroning herself on a stone. The Iron Bull and Sera saw her and followed, each throwing the other a baffled shrug. Varric and Mother Giselle stood back, among the Herald's advisors. A pale young man with large, watery eyes could sometimes be seen in the crowd, his head hunched down, nearly swallowed by the crush of bodies. Solas waited under a tormented, wind-gnarled pine tree, off to one side, as his hard, brown eyes looked daggers at Maxwell through the pine needles. 

Maxwell's mouth twisted, his expression hard and calculating as he stared back at these devotees who had almost murdered a man in his name. Maxwell was done with fighting them; these peasants had conquered him. They had been the ones to thrust sainthood on him. Fine. He would accept the job, and be their god, and dictate to them the morals he expected of them. He would command them to be good, to do what was right. He held up his hand, "The Elder One..." Maxwell broke off and struggled to find the words. "The Elder One is one of the magisters of old, who broke open the Black City and brought darkspawn into this world. His name is Corypheus and he killed the Divine in a ritual meant to tear down the Veil so that he could enter the Fade once more, to finish what he started." 

Gasps erupted from the crowd, an echoing hiss that brought memories of the Fade and Envy gushing into Maxwell's head. Dorian shrank at this, pulling into himself like a shadow, one foot already half off the mountain to flee again. Maxwell tightened his hold, not wanting him to slip away like last time. "Corypheus comes from a Tevinter that no longer exists. We must not let this divide us! Andraste reached out Her hand and saved me from death twice! The Maker gave me the Mark as a tool to defeat him! And... He has sent us Dorian Pavus, who warned us, who helped us. We must not fall prey to our temptations. We must not give the Maker another reason to turn His back. You will all accept Dorian as one of your own, for without him we will not succeed. We need each other. We need mages and shepherds and soldiers and masons. We're all in this together, and we _will_ all accept one another or we will all hang together." As he said this, he felt his heart become suddenly empty, his body reminded him of its hurts, and he leaned more heavily on Dorian, exhausted. The night seemed to grow darker, rushing at him like an avalanche until even the stars were blotted out.

* * *

Maxwell was sure he had slept for only a few hours. His mouth was dry with the bitter aftertaste of elfroot and his arms and legs felt unnaturally warm and heavy beneath the blankets. Outside he could hear singing and Mother Giselle's clear voice rising and falling as she recalled the hymns from his childhood. Someone let out a snore and Maxwell turned his head to see Dorian in a chair, his head lolled to one side. Maxwell let out a sigh. Dorian had stayed. Something loosened inside Maxwell's chest at the thought. 

Blearily, he turned his head to look up at the splash of red fabric. He wanted to see the stars. He wanted to open his mouth and ask Andraste: My Lady, are you pleased with me? He wanted to say many things to the Maker, but did not dare. He already knew the answer. Despite the lies that had tumbled from his mouth, Maxwell knew that the Maker had not returned. It used to be that Maxwell thought Him a savage god, but now he wondered if maybe He was just simply apathetic. Somehow, that was even worse. 

"Your mark was not given to you by Andraste or any other god." 

If he did not hurt so much, Maxwell would have jumped. Solas appeared at his side, looking down at him with an expression of disgust. "I know. It was Corypheus's doing. A stupid mistake because I interrupted his ritual. But I needed them to do what was right." 

"And you think to do this by masquerading as divine? That will not teach them what is right, that will teach them only obedience." 

"For now, it is enough."


	8. Chapter 8

Streets, rooftops, courts, squares: Ostwick was entirely clothed in reds and oranges and yellows. It was All Soul's Day and the city was wreathed in banners and long ropes of sweet-smelling chrysanthemums that twisted through the alleyways, across windows and balconies, their petals sticking between the cobblestones. The harvest and vintage were finished, the year was coming to an end, and the people lit candles at the chantry in remembrance for all those they had lost. They prayed to Andraste, begging Her to intercede on behalf of the souls of their loved ones, to guide them out of the Fade so that they too could rest at the Maker's side. For three days the people of Ostwick would eat and drink under a riot of colors, make merry, and sing funeral dirges. 

The wide courtyards of the great Ostwick Chantry overflowed with worshippers. Every day they came, clutching their red candles, until the city square stank from the smell of smoke and burnt wax. The sacred air echoed with horns and trumpets. The people overate, over-drank. The first day was all hymns, prayers, and prostrations, but starting with the second and third days, the excessive meat and wine went to the heads of the people. The dirty jokes and the laughter and the bawdy tavern songs began, and men and women coupled shamelessly in broad daylight, at first within the brothels, and then openly in the roads and on the green grass. In every neighborhood the prostitutes appeared, plastered with make-up and smeared with aromatic oil. The simple farmers and fishermen who had come from the surrounding country to adore the Maker and his Holy Bride fell into these accomplished arms and were amazed. They had never dreamed that a kiss could involve such art and such savor. 

Holding his breath, Bann Trevelyan strode hurriedly, angrily, through the streets and over the dead-drunk people who were rolling on the ground. The smells and filth and the shameless guffawing nauseated him. "Quickly, quickly!" He exclaimed to his children. 

But his middle child, Percy, was continually halting, encountering pilgrims who offered him a glass of wine, a bite to eat, and engaged him in conversation. He'd call to his sister to join him and soon the old Bann would realize that he had crossed several streets alone. "Maker, Father won't let us breathe freely like human beings," grumbled Percy, who had already sampled his fair share of wine. "It's good to mingle with the common folk." 

"And yet when there is some farm work or drudgery to be done, you are nowhere to be found," Beatrice mocked. 

A hoarse voice called out from one of the merchant tents. "My Lord Percy, how could you pass me by and not stop for a drink? Are we not old friends?" 

Percy recognized the voice and turned. "Hello! Nice to bump into you, Hubert, you filthy Orlesian." He turned to his sister. "Let's stop and have a drink. Hubert is a famous cutthroat bastard. Once sold a cushion to the Empress, as he's told me many a-time. He deserves to be hanged and have his head impaled on a stake, but he's got a nice selection of vintage and we ought to do him the honor." Percy laughed uproariously, slapped the poor merchant's back, and took great pleasure in watching the man's eyes grow wide with fear. 

Hubert quickly ushered them inside, his tone of voice so gentle and effacing that it sent a little shock through Beatrice when he suddenly whirled around to bark rough orders, insults, and threats at the cowering servants that surrounded him. He plucked three silver goblets from his wares and set them down at his table, tipping a flagon of something dark and aromatic into them. "Come, we must drink to your health and to the health of your brother!" 

The rich, sweet wine soured in Beatrice's mouth at the mention of her exiled sibling. "Oh, and what do you know of Brother Maxwell? He is only layman in a small, country chantry. I find it hard that a man of any standing would be acquainted with him." 

"Surely, you jest! The whole world is talking about the attack on Haven and Inquisitor Trevelyan's battle with an Archdemon-- yes, Inquisitor Trevelyan! When he rose from the ashes of the dead, the Inquisition proclaimed him to be the true Herald of Blessed Andraste and announced him as their new Inquisitor! They say that when he lifts his foot, the ground he has trodden fills with flowers. When he looks at the trees, they blossom. A fisherman once told me that he took the Herald across Lake Calenhad in his boat and the moment he stepped inside the lake swelled with so many fish that they were jumping over the sides to flop at their feet! I believe it, every word of it. I saw him once while I was on the road from Val Royeaux. The Herald is a savage, untamed beast-- how can I describe him? Flames fly out of his nostrils, Maker protect me! He was fighting demons and he grabbed one by the neck and bashed its head in! Oh, but here is his father, the good Bann. Shall I pour another cup?" 

Hubert grinned, filled his cup, and drank. Beatrice and Percy took one look at the careful lines on their father's face, the darkness behind his blue eyes, and threw back their glasses. They slammed them down on the counter, in perfect unison, and quickly left. 

Bann Trevelyan did not look to see if his children followed him out. He marched to Ostwick Chantry as a soldier marches into battle. He stepped inside the narthex, crowded with men and stalls; well-shaded arcades, columns of white and blue marble girded with golden vine branches and grapes; and on every side, sheds, tents, carts full of merchants hawking candles, fortunes, prayer books. The air resounded with shouts, brawls and laughter, and the Maker's house stank from sweat and filth. 

The old Bann put his palm over his nose and mouth. He looked all around him, but the Maker was nowhere. Suddenly he felt faint. Everything disappeared. The heavens opened and Andraste with flaming red hair, the same shade as his youngest son's, rushed forth, Her feet lashing into the air. With smoke and flames rising from the hair of her head, She climbed onto a broken column in the middle of the city and pointed Her sword toward the beautiful chantry his great-grandfather had commissioned a century ago. 

He staggered. The Bann steadied himself on his daughter's arm. Opening his eyes, he saw the chantry and the noisy people. The dream was gone. That was all it was, a dream. "Forgive me," he said. "But I cannot last. I feel tired. Let us go." 

"Without worshipping?" Said Beatrice, scandalized. 

"Go in my place. Buy a candle for your mother and your brother and light them for me." 

Beatrice recoiled from her father, her hands lifted as though burned. Those candles were for the dead. Bann Trevelyan paid no attention to her, his gaze was fixed on an elf lying stretched out, face down in front of the marble feet of Andraste. He ravenously kissed the hard stone of her toes, bellowing "Praise to you, Blessed Bride, and praise to your Herald."

* * *

Maxwell let his hand slide over the cool, stone railing that wrapped higher and higher around the tower. The Inquisition had spent a week trudging through snow, across the Frostback Mountains, to a hidden ruin in search of sanctuary after Haven was destroyed. Erupting from the mountain peak stood the crumbling fortress of Skyhold Castle, reaching out with dusty, gnarled fingers towards the heavens. The sky rushed down to meet it through the rotten, open roof. "It didn't look quite like this when I came across a memory of it in the Fade," Solas had admitted quietly. 

"I've never even heard of it." 

"It's quite ancient. Originally elven, before the humans came and leveled the site. It changed hands a few times before it was abandoned and lost." 

And yet still the pilgrims came. They filled every building, every room, throwing themselves into their work so that they too could say they once served the Herald of Andraste, even if it was only in their own small way of sweeping and washing and cooking. Dwarves came up from the surrounding valleys to rebuild walls and tile roofs. Old soldiers dusted off their armor and joined the rank and file. 

Maxwell walked the stairs to the library, the Inquisitor's sword strapped to his waist. He dipped his head to avoid hitting it on the low archway. His body felt big and out of place between the tables of books and half-melted candles. This was Dorian's domain and Maxwell was here to pay him homage. The Tranquil nodded as he passed. They did not care about his new title, just as they did not care that Dorian was Tevinter. The other librarians, however, were not so keen on sharing their space with him. They stared at him, this Tevinter mage, this interloper who seemed so close to their Herald. Every day, Maxwell would come to speak with Dorian. Sometimes it was only for a few minutes, other days they sat across from each other for hours, forgetting all thoughts of dinner and supper too. They watched as the Tevinter would lean against him to whisper into his ear. They could see the snakes slipping from between his teeth to burrow into Maxwell's head, twisting in his thoughts. 

Maxwell slowed his approach as angry shouts rose to meet him. Mother Giselle's lilting voice echoed against the stone. "I don't know what you think you are doing." 

"I am being clucked at by a hen, obviously!" Came Dorian's sharp retort. 

"Don't play the fool with me, young man." 

"If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you." 

"Your glib tongue does you no credit." 

Maxwell stepped into the alcove to see Dorian's face twist into a leer, the light from the stained-glass window painting his skin a brilliant shade of violet. "You'd be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence." Grey eyes suddenly widened as they locked onto the Herald's face. A dark cloud passed across the sun, and Dorian's skin turned brown once more in the soft glow of the candlelight. 

Mother Giselle turned at the look on Dorian's face. "Oh! … I--" 

"What's going on here?" 

Dorian was quick to respond. "It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my undue influence over you." 

"It _is_ just concern," Mother Giselle spoke up with a sharp glare. "Your Worship, you must know how this looks." 

"You might need to spell it out, my dear," Dorian helpfully supplied. 

"This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumors alone..." 

Maxwell lifted a brow at this. "Oh? I'd like to hear what these rumors are exactly." 

"I... could not repeat them, Your Worship." 

"Repeat them? So, you shared them before?" 

"I... see." Mother Giselle folded her hands across her robes. "I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man's intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both." She bowed and stepped around them, her trailing skirts rustling over the floor as she went. 

Dorian watched her go, his eyes sharp and hawkish, and Maxwell watched him. "She didn't get to you, did she?" 

"No, it takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations. A mob, armed with stones, perhaps, but not a bothersome old woman." Dorian sighed and finally turned to face him. "She means well, if that's of any concern. The people only want to protect you from the dread Magister here to enslave you and steal your virginity." 

"My virginity?" Maxwell plucked a goblet Dorian had left lying on the table beside his chair and books, throwing back a mouthful of the stuff. Brandy this time, and sharp on the tongue. He held back a grimace to keep Dorian from seeing, otherwise the man would surely laugh. 

"Ridiculous, I know. I don't know if you're aware but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are... intimate." 

Maxwell looked out the window, across the courtyard at where the dark clouds drifted by. "That's not the worse assumption they could have, is it? If I hadn't turned coward, they'd be right." He could hear Desire creep closer, its footsteps scuffing along the stairs to the alcove where he and Dorian stood talking. 

Dorian settled in his chair as Maxwell leaned against a bookcase, his hand scratching through his thick, red beard as the mage regarded him. "Not all of us can be hedonistic libertines." 

"At this point, I'd take lights off, under the covers, in the missionary position if I could get it." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean my virginity is in danger." 

Dorian blinked, his bottom lip twisted up as he stared at Maxwell like he was a particularly frustrating puzzle. "You've never...?" 

"I was only eighteen when they shut me up in the Chantry." 

"Oh, well." Maxwell could see the faint beginnings of a blush crawling up Dorian's neck. "I was a bit younger than eighteen when I lost my virginity. Did no Chantry brother ever catch your eye? No initiate or layman?" 

"I was a well-known murderer. They weren't exactly throwing themselves at my feet. Besides, I wouldn't... I couldn't... not then." Maybe not even now. 

Silence sprang between them. Dorian shifted, his knee knocking into the table as he fidgeted. Maxwell counted the seconds until Dorian could stand it no longer and rushed to fill the void. "I heard about what happened between you and that Templar... Why did you do it?" 

"Because I was ashamed and he was convenient." Maxwell turned to look at him, catching those grey eyes and pinning them down. "I trained at the Ansburg Circle. One night, I passed by the apprentice's dormitory and I saw the Knight-Captain crawl into the bed of a mage. She was begging him to stop, over and over, and he told her that if she didn't shut up he would turn her Tranquil. I... I didn't know what to do. He was my superior, my teacher. I just kept walking. The next day one of the recruits made some stupid joke about how much he enjoyed being surrounded by so many pretty mage girls... I just lost it." 

"You were barely more than a child." 

"So was that apprentice. So was Braun." Maxwell let loose a breath from deep within him. "Maker, I do want to kiss you." 

"Kiss me then." 

"I can't," and with that Maxwell pushed himself off and left the library, Desire trailing close enough behind that Maxwell could feel the brush of its fingers through his hair.


	9. Chapter 9

Maxwell sat in a dusty, unused corner of the chantry and stared silently at the figure of Andraste. She glowered down at him and from two pews back, Maxwell could hear Desire giggle at his discomfort. After his confession, he couldn't bring himself to look Dorian in the eye. He'd barely said more than a handful of words to him these past two days. Maker, he really was a coward. He could only imagine what the other man must think of him now. 

The door creaked open and a beam of sunlight fell across the chantry, running along the floor and up the length of the statue, setting Andraste's eyes aflame. "Herald," Leliana spoke as she approached. Behind her stood Varric and an unknown peasant woman in a hunter's green cloak, shifting from foot to foot as she stared in trepidation at Andraste's gleaming visage. "There is a matter I need to discuss with you. Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared. Ordinarily, I wouldn't even consider the idea they're involved in all this, but now that we know who is responsible for the destruction of the Temple... It cannot be a coincidence. From what Varric has told me, the Grey Wardens had once managed to imprison Corypheus before he escaped; it is only reasonable to assume that he is behind their disappearance. However, two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. We must find him." 

"And I've got a lead on another Grey Warden," Varric said. "Well, my friend does. Inquisitor, meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall." 

Maxwell stood and bowed as Clara Hawke stepped forward. One hand rested lightly behind her back, within easy reach of the bow strapped there. He recognized the careful way she walked, so soft and quiet the dust hardly stirred beneath her feet, her quick glances at the chantry's only exit; this was a woman who knew what it was like to be the most hated person in the room. Strange to think she had once been a beloved folk hero, Viscountess and heroic Champion. She spoke, "Though I don't use that title much anymore." 

"Hawke, the Inquisitor. I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus. You and I did fight him after all." 

Hawke moved slowly down the aisle. She slid into one of the pews and tapped her hand against the seat, the wedding band around her finger clicking against the wood. Her pale blue eyes never leaving Andraste's face. "It's been a while since I was in a chantry," she said as Maxwell settled next to her. "I think She's scolding me." 

"I never knew you were married," said Maxwell. Varric had made no mention of it in his book. 

"Oh, I'm not. At least, not anymore." Her eyes flickered toward him. "It's hard, loving someone who doesn't want you. Not that I blame him. Not after what I did." 

"You've made some hard choices." 

"You will have to as well. You will do whatever you can to protect the people you love." 

"Does it ever get any easier?" 

"I'll let you know." She looked down at her nail-bitten fingers. "I don't envy you, Inquisitor. But I may be able to help you." 

"Varric said that you fought Corypheus before." 

"Fought and killed. The Grey Wardens were holding him, and he somehow used his connection to the darkspawn to influence them." 

Varric spoke, "Corypheus got into their heads. Messed with their minds. Turned them against each other." 

"If the Wardens have disappeared, they could have fallen under his control again." 

Maxwell's thoughts turned to Envy. "If that's what happened, do you think we can free them?" 

"It's possible, but we need to know more first. I've got a friend in the Wardens. His name is Stroud. The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks. Since then, nothing. He told me he would be hiding in an old smuggler's cave near Crestwood." 

"That is only a day's journey from the last known location of Warden Blackwall," Leliana said from the doorway. "You, Inquisitor, can search for Blackwall while Hawke meets with Stroud." 

Maxwell nodded. He needed the work as a distraction from his own failings. Perhaps Dorian will forget them too while he was away. 

But Dorian was not a man who could be ordered. He was no soldier, no Templar. He did not click his heels and salute at every command issued him. He was very likely to do the exact opposite of what any one person would tell him, simply out of spite. It was something Maxwell liked about him -- the man thought for himself, all others be damned -- even if it drove him mad at times. So, it was with grudging acceptance that Maxwell found Dorian hitching his horse beside his the morning he was to set out for the Hinterlands. "I thought I said it would be best if you stayed here," Maxwell groused, too ashamed to properly look at the mage. 

Dorian snorted. "My leaving has nothing to do with you. I'm going to do some shopping in Redcliffe. I've been planning this trip for weeks. Not everything has to do with you and your ego." 

Without wanting to, Dorian had managed to pull a smile from Maxwell's lips. The Inquisitor even dared to steal a glance. "I thought you said Ferelden had nothing to offer, that they would strap dead rats on their feet and call if high fashion." 

"Well, I didn't say I was going to Redcliffe to buy shoes." Dorian's smile was wide as he spoke. "There's a bookshop run by a dwarf near the docks with a surprisingly good selection. I think he stole them." 

Maxwell laughed and with their faces directed toward Redcliffe, they proceeded, neither noticing the looks Cassandra and Solas shot one another as they followed behind the pair. Their bodies had grown buoyant, like souls. Maxwell felt the yoke that he hadn't known was on his shoulders slip off and tumble into the dirt. Dorian had not abandoned him upon learning the truth; he stayed by his side, distracting him, laughing with him, until Maxwell had forgotten about Desire. The demon began to lag behind and soon it was puffing as it struggled to run alongside Maxwell's horse. They rode, with the lake on their left, and on their right, lying tame and fertile, the Hinterlands, tired and content. It had lifted up the grain, loaded down the vines with grapes and the trees with peaches. It lay now, satisfied, like a mother who had just given birth to her child. 

They climbed slowly, out of breath, toward Lake Luthias. Suddenly, at a twist in the road, their sight fell upon a meadow nestled between two great hills that had not yet given up its bounty to the encroaching winter. The waters of the lake chuckled, the trees dipped low and heavy with swollen peaches. The air was perfumed with roses. But when Maxwell stepped inside the glade, his boot came back bloody. The paradise disappeared, the trees sagged with rotten fruit, the lake muddy with bloated corpses. The smell of roses tangled with the blood of men. 

Their bodies littered the rocky banks of the lake. A group of men stood among the reeds, swinging pitchforks and hoes and woodsmen's axes at gaunt-faced bandits. Maxwell plunged his feet into the freezing river slime. A black snake gave a start and slid through the murky depths, twisting itself between Maxwell's legs. 

The wind was roaring and carried a heavy stench of rotting carcasses. Maxwell now began to hear a wild, hoarse voice. "Conscripts, here they come!" There, standing on two thick, trunk-like legs was Warden Blackwall. Wave after wave of bellowing men broke upon the rocks. The Warden turned, swinging out with his shield to catch one of the bandits in the throat, and his eyes locked onto Maxwell's. "Who are you?" He demanded. 

"Don't you know me?" 

The air sang with a whistle. Blackwall's shield caught an arrow aimed at his head. "That's it. Help or get out. We're dealing with these idiots first!" 

Maxwell ran along the length of the bank, his horsehead maul cracking down on the knee of an archer. The bone shattered and splintered, piercing through the other side and sending the man crashing into the lake. Fire raced along the path, eating its way toward the bandits. There was the smell of lightning on a clear, cloudless day. Cassandra's dark eyes peered at him from above her shield. 

The bandits were pitifully weak in their stolen armor and stitched-together leathers. Within minutes the dead and dying were lying draped over the bright, green grass at Maxwell's feet. "Sorry bastards," Blackwall muttered as he knelt beside one of the corpses. He stood up, his old, ill-fitting armor creaking as he straightened his knees to address the farmers they had fought beside. "Good work, conscripts, even if this shouldn't have happened. They could've-- well, thieves are made, not born. Take back what they stole. Go back to your families. You saved yourselves." 

As Blackwall watched them leave, he could feel Maxwell's stare ransacking his entire body, grew angry, swung completely around and half-closed his two round, hawk-like eyes against the fierce light of the afternoon sun in order to see better. Who was this silent, motionless man? "You're Inquisition. What do you want?" 

Maxwell ignored the question. He simply stared for a moment or two longer at this strange Grey Warden. Shorter than he'd imagined and his armor was in disrepair. His breastplate didn't fit him correctly, like he'd once been a much smaller man. Surely an Order as famed as the Wardens could properly outfit their men. Maxwell turned away, his thoughts still roaming as he shucked his own breastplate and tossed it onto the ground, followed quickly by his leathers and thin, linen shirt. Maxwell's face was tan and freckled from the sun, but his chest and arms were a pale, gleaming white. Dorian let out a shriek of laughter at the stark tan lines that crossed his neck and wrists and Maxwell shrugged his great shoulders with a smile before thrusting his way into the blue stream. He poured water over his face, scrubbing at the blood that colored his skin as red as his beard. The water around him grew black and thick with it, carrying away the stains so that Maxwell could stand before the Grey Warden clean of his sins. A raven, perhaps one of Leliana's, flew above his head and uttered a hoarse cry like that of a drowning man who was mocking something, or laughing. Maxwell pulled himself back out of the water, raking his fingers through his wet, tangled hair, and spoke. "My name is Inquisitor Trevelyan. I lead the Inquisition. We're investigating whether the Warden disappearance is connected to Corypheus and the Divine's murder." 

Blackwall snorted as the Inquisitor reached for his shirt, then his leathers and his armor. "Maker's balls, that's a mouthful. Wardens and who? And he killed the Divine? That makes no sense." 

"It's a creature Wardens once caged," Cassandra spoke up, one gauntlet tucked underneath her arm so she could wipe at the sweat that had gathered at her brow. "Now it claims it will be a god." 

"Bullshit. I heard something about a dragon that _looked_ like an archdemon, but the rest? No, Inquisitor or not, you must have it wrong. This Corypheus, or whatever, is insane or lying. I've never even heard his name. But one thing I'll tell you: no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn't political." 

"So where are the rest of you?" 

"I haven't seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting. There's a little interest because of Haven, but with no real Blight, there's no point conscripting. Treaties give Wardens the right to take what we need. Who we need." 

Maxwell's mouth twisted at the words. He adjusted his breastplate once more and resettled his maul in the sheath across his back. "It's been a pleasure, Warden Blackwall," he spoke, his tone telling him it had been anything but. "But this didn't help at all." 

The Inquisitor hadn't taken more than two steps when Blackwall suddenly spoke. "Inquisitor, hold on a moment. With this dragon and that thing..." 

"Corypheus." 

"Right. I know my Order had nothing to do with that, but it sounds like we should. And if I'm one of the last, I should help. I mean, whatever he is, if there's any connection to the Blight, you need a Warden." 

Maxwell smiled at him, but it was an empty smile, his eyes once again raking over the Warden's form. "Warden Blackwall, the Inquisition accepts your offer."

* * *

The road to Crestwood was black and muddy. Rivers ran along the edges of the street, pooling in potholes and washing away the wagon tracks. Autumn gave birth to one last great deluge before the winter snows came to drive it away. The clouds were bursting with water, soaking Maxwell and his companions to the bone. Caravans from the Fereldan countryside appeared, bringing new refugees fleeing the rifts that had yet to be closed. Between the carts and horses, Maxwell spied silverite armor stamped with the griffon's crest. Grey Wardens. Leliana couldn't find a single member of the Order a week ago, and now the Inquisition appeared to be drowning in them. "Hello! Here to protect the people from the rifts?" Maxwell called from his horse, pulling his mouth in what he hoped was more of a friendly grin than a grimace. 

"No sir, Inquisitor!" One of the Wardens replied, giving a slight bow in his direction, and then to Blackwall's. The Warden looked between the two, before his gaze finally rested on Blackwall's face, a question in his eyes. Blackwall returned the gesture with a nod of his own, but said nothing in reply. If Blackwall answered, only his fellow Warden seemed to understand it. He turned back to Maxwell and said, "We're looking for a Warden last seen in this area. Jean-Marc Stroud. He's wanted for questioning." 

"What's he done?" 

"Warden-Commander Clarel ordered his capture. I can say no more than that. The Wardens will be grateful for any assistance you can provide us." 

"I am afraid I have business elsewhere," Maxwell answered and made sure to look appropriately regretful. "But if I see your man I will send a message to your Warden-Commander." 

"Thank you, ser." 

The Warden disappeared back into the rain and crush of moving bodies. Maxwell couldn't help but notice how better equipped he was than his new friend Warden Blackwall. Maxwell shot him a look. "Any idea what that was about?" 

"None at all." 

Maxwell found Hawke and Stroud squatting in a cave. They sat, silent and afflicted, listening to the rain falling against the rocks. When they saw the Inquisitor approach, they jumped up. "Glad you made it," Clara said. 

Maxwell ignored her, choosing to focus his gaze on Stroud. He was an Orlesian, with a thick moustache that was threatening to turn into a proper beard by the amount of stubble that covered his face. "There was a group of Wardens out there hunting you. They said you were a traitor." 

Hawke pursed her lips. "Of course they did. They may even believe it. How much blood is shed by good men following bad orders?" 

Maxwell could hear Blackwall shift behind him, his worn armor creaking with the movement. The Inquisitor spoke, "Most of you Wardens disappear. Then I run into a darkspawn Magister named Corypheus. Do you think one might have something to do with the other?" The sarcasm dripped from his words. Irritation pecked at his edges, goading the fire inside him that had been smothered into a burned-out coal these past few days until it was spitting back to life. Maxwell was tired of people keeping secrets. Desire laughed from somewhere beside Blackwall, and hissed out a word. _Hypocrite_ , it said, in a voice that reminded Maxwell of Envy. 

"I fear it is so," Stroud answered. "When my friend Hawke slew Corypheus, Weisshaupt was happy to put the matter to rest. But an archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal, and I feared Corypheus might possess the same power. My investigation uncovered clues but no proof. Then, not long after, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling." 

"You never told me," said Hawke. 

"It was a Grey Warden matter. I was bound by an oath of secrecy." 

"Is the Calling some sort of Grey Warden ritual?" Maxwell asked. 

"The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him. Starts with dreams. Then come whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat." 

"And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now? They think they're dying?" 

"Yes, likely because of Corypheus. If the Wardens fall, who will stand against the next Blight? It is our greatest fear." 

Hawke sighed. "And then they do something desperate... which is of course what Corypheus wants." 

Stroud closed his eyes. "Yes, we were desperate, and that desperation led us to a mage of Tevinter, Livius Erimond." This time it was Dorian who shuffled behind him. Maxwell heard him take a half-step back, his boot grinding over the stone. He wanted to reach out his hand, to offer him some sort of comfort, but he knew Dorian wouldn't accept it. He could see him now, without looking, the proud tilt of his head, the arrogant flash of his eyes as though daring anyone in that cave to try to put him in the same category as this Livius Erimond. "Erimond conceived a plan that would enable us to march into the Deep Roads and slay every archdemon before they could awaken and unleash a new Blight. It would require demons and blood sacrifice. The Wardens are at Adamant now, under the direction of Warden-Commander Clarel, preparing to bring forth a demon army."


	10. Chapter 10

The Inquisition advanced slowly through the desert. On all sides Maxwell saw soldiers trudging through the sand, their sun-darkened faces shining in the moonlight as they lifted up their banners for their God and their Herald. He could see the vanguard flinging themselves at Adamant Fortress. The air swelled with screams, the booming of magefire, the clashing of swords. His soldiers all looked like ants swarming over an anthill, tearing each other apart in little ant battles. Maxwell swept his eyes over the people, the mountains, the desert. He leaned over his horse and saw his shadow undulating with the dunes. 

_How nice it would be,_ he thought, _to sit at the edge of this desert and watch the sand flow over the dunes with the scrubby trees, birds, clouds and stars all around and flowing too; how nice if I could roll along also and not be devoured by this care for the world._

The heavy gates groaned with each push of the Inquisition's battering ram. Maxwell slid from his horse and pulled his maul from its sheath. Dorian dismounted beside him, his face replaced with a beautifully sculpted mask except for his wide eyes which were ringed white with fear. To his right, Sera shivered despite the warm, windless night. He had offered her a position among his council, along with the Orlesian mage Vivienne de Fer and the Qunari mercenary Iron Bull when he heard how they had held back waves of Venatori the night Haven was destroyed with hardly a thought to their own lives. Maxwell cupped Sera's head with his big hand and ruffled her hair. She squawked, punched him in the elbow, swore when her knuckles connected with his armor. She glared at him from underneath her blonde fringe, and he smiled, pleased to see her distracted from her fear. 

Sera wasn't the only one in need of a distraction. Maxwell could hear someone muttering behind him. The words came too hot and too quick to be Desire and the Inquisitor turned to see Solas staring up at the demons swarming across Adamant's battlements, his sharp eyes burning with hatred at the sight of them. "Alright?" He asked, turning his deep, rumbling voice soft with compassion. Maxwell had seen his fair share of battles since this war began; staring down at an enemy across a painted field, waiting, waiting for the signal to charge. A man could break in those too few minutes. 

"I am not some green Circle apprentice," Solas snapped, his eyes slashing from the battlements to Maxwell's face. "This is not the first time I have fought in a war." 

"Which war did you fight in?" 

"I doubt you heard of it. There is always some war going on at any given time. Let us say it was an elvhen skirmish and leave it at that." 

The anger was thrumming beneath Solas's skin and Maxwell wouldn't be surprised if he started spitting fire instead of ice. "Doesn't get any easier though." 

"No, it doesn't," Solas conceded, his voice kinder than before. "I must get inside before those fools do more damage. They're tearing the Veil apart!" 

"Our forces will break through any moment now. Everything is going well." 

"'Everything is going well' is not enough for me. A wolf's hunger is not appeased with words. Maybe you don't know that, but I do." 

"I'm grateful you aren't a wolf then. Be patient. I thought elves were good at being patient." 

Solas snorted. "I have run out of patience. I am like the shemlen in that regard. We are both things which are in a hurry. I suppose for you -- as a living god -- it is different. You are indestructible," he mocked. "You can afford to be patient and wait. But for all those elvhen legends, I am still only a mortal and I do not want to die before I have a chance to fix this mess." 

The gate crumbled inward and Maxwell's soldiers poured inside the fortress, slaughtering every Grey Warden they saw. "You'll fix it!" The Inquisitor called back with a ferocious grin as he was swept away in the charge. "Maker watch over you!" He could no longer see the elf, swallowed as he was in the rush. Cassandra, Varric, and the Iron Bull were already making their way up the stairs towards the battlements. Ice twisted up from the sand, forming a barrier between Maxwell and a line of demons. He could see Vivienne's shadow dancing behind the ice, her spirit sword cutting through the monsters with speed and precision. Cole had dropped his dagger and now laid on his side beside a dying Warden, whispering something in his ear. Across the fortress, lightning fell from a cloudless sky. Maxwell grinned. Solas. The Inquisitor swung out with his maul. Blood and teeth splashed across the hot sand from the empty, gaping hole that had once been a Warden's face. The Grey Warden collapsed like a puppet, only to pull himself back up again, his arms jerking on their strings. Dorian stood on his left, painting glyphs in the air. Maxwell felled the Wardens and their demons, and Dorian resurrected them, turning their mutilated bodies onto their comrades. 

"THE WARDEN-COMMANDER HAS SUNDERED THE VEIL! INQUISITOR! HURRY!" 

Maxwell turned to see Hawke and Stroud pushing their way through the surging mass. A demon reached out with one gnarled, claw-like hand toward Stroud. Hawke notched her bow and fired a shot without even slowing her pace. Maxwell followed them up the stairs, Sera and Blackwall and Dorian behind him, twisting up around the tower where he could see the green light of a massive rift rising in a jagged line toward the sky. Warden-Commander Clarel stood before it, her golden staff glowing from the light that poured from the Fade. Behind her was the Tevinter, the mage Erimond Livius, and at her feet were countless Grey Wardens, slaughtered in her quest for more blood, more power, and more demons. "Bring it through," she commanded. 

The rift twisted and swirled, the wriggling tendrils of light turning themselves inward before suddenly exploding in giant shafts that cut across the desert. A demon of Pride pulled away from the green strings that tethered it to the Fade, pushing through the rift in a burst of lightning. Maxwell raced across the tower, his maul heavy in his hands. He could hear arrows whistling past his head. A precious few pierced the demon's hide, but most clattered harmlessly to the ground. Sera let out a string of curses. She was perched on a ledge, her empty quiver tangled around her feet as she pulled a glass vial from her belt. It soared through the sky, breaking against the demon's shoulder, and letting out a blast of fire. Hawke dodged the flames in a desperate attempt to find higher ground, losing two arrows as she rolled. Only three left. Blackwall and Stroud were hedging in on it, ducking beneath their shields whenever its claws got too close. Dorian was somewhere behind him, coaxing the fire with his magic until it raged upward, twisting until it burned inside the rift itself. The others were still somewhere in the courtyard, or up on the battlements, fighting. 

Maxwell could only reach the demon's knee, but he struck at it. The vibration rippled through the metal, sending the Inquisitor stumbling back, his teeth clattering with the force of it. The demon collapsed forward from the cut that had bloomed across his leg, one hand braced against the stone floor. It pulled back its lips and the rows of its needle-like teeth were black with blood. 

"My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor!" Erimond shouted down at him. Clarel turned to him in confusion, the bloody knife still clutched in her hand. "He sent me this to welcome you!" 

Maxwell heard its roars echoing through the fortress. He felt his heart stop as he saw Corypheus's dragon fall from the sky, fire tumbling from its wide-open, blackened maw. Clarel screamed. It was a sound full of fury and grief. Lightning leapt from her fingertips, striking Erimond in the back. He fell onto his knees, hunched over and gasping. "You!" She hissed, her voice coming out in little gasps, her own blind hatred strangling the words in her throat. "You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!" 

"You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch." Air fell from Erimond's wet lips in what could only be a laugh. "All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes and you couldn't wait to get your hands bloody!" 

Clarel let loose another strangled cry as she hefted her golden staff, ready to send it down on top of Erimond's head. The dragon dove toward her, landing in front of the mage with enough force that Maxwell could feel the ancient tower tremble beneath its great weight. It whipped its head, snapping its jaws tight around her stomach, teeth piercing the soft flesh of her belly. The dragon shook his head, sending her crashing down onto the ground beside Erimond. Maxwell could only take a half step back before the dragon's eyes were suddenly on him, its huge body twisting around to charge. 

Clarel crawled, her intestines scraping against the stone with each pull of her hand as she struggled to flop onto her back. "In war, victory..." Gasping, she rolled, her hands automatically flying up to push at her guts. "In peace, vigilance..." The dragon didn't even look down as it stepped over her body, its eyes never leaving Maxwell. "In death..." 

Lightning erupted in an arc, cutting across the dragon's chest and stomach. Rocks flew towards the Inquisitor like the surf breaking against the shore as the dragon collapsed, the tower shattering beneath it as it fell. Maxwell tried to run, but there was nothing holding him up. His feet could feel only cool air underneath him. He thought he saw Sera somewhere in-between the rain of stones. She looked like a child, curled up in a ball, her hands covering her eyes. "MAXWELL! MAX!" That was Dorian's voice. Dorian was falling. Dorian-- 

Maxwell stood at the edge of a green desert. It was the Fade. Perhaps he had truly died this time and now the Maker had cast him down where he would wander for all eternity. After all, he was a blasphemer. A false Herald, and a murderer. The Mark on his hand burned. The green thrummed hotly through his veins until it glowed through the thin, pale sheath of his skin. Or perhaps he had done this to himself. If his Mark could close the rifts, then it would only make sense if it could open them as well. Maxwell looked around, but he could not see his companions. Had they come here too? Or were they now lying, broken, at the base of that tower? 

The Inquisitor started forward. As he walked he heard the disquieting hiss of snakes, and of the burning wind which blew between the floating pillars, and of the invisible spirits that made their home in the Fade. Hearing steps behind him, he cocked his ear. There was the crunching of sand. Someone was walking toward him, calmly, surely. _I forgot it during the battle,_ he thought, shuddering, _but it did not forget me. It is coming with me; Desire is coming with me..._

He marched on, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. He spied around him, hoping to see his companions, and as he did so, he heard wings flapping above him and saw a flock of crows rush into a pit where there was a stinking black object in the process of decay. Holding his nose, he approached. The crows had fallen upon the carcass, planted their claws in it, and begun to eat. When they saw a man approach they flew away angrily, each with a mouthful of flesh in its talons. They circled in the air, calling to the intruder to go away. Maxwell leaned over, saw the opened belly and the black, bruised face of Arran Braun. 

"You suffered for my sin," he said as he bent over, dug in the sand as deeply as he could with his hands, and covered the carcass. "My brother, you were innocent. I was a coward and I killed you for it. I am a poor, weak creature and I did not have the courage to face what I did not do for that mage, and what I did do to you. Please, have mercy on me, and let me go. Get rid of this curse." 

Desire laughed. 

Suddenly a voice-- a soft, lilting voice that reminded him of Mother Giselle echoed through the Fade. "Is this what you fear?" 

The crows twisted in their circle, folded their wings and plunged towards him. They dragged their talons across his face, and in each scratch wild fear was sown. _Loneliness_. _Cowardice_. _Himself_. He felt the blast of heat scorch his face and the crows fell, their feathers turned to candles as they plummeted. Dorian stood in front of him, gray eyes wide and fierce as he looked over the Inquisitor. "Are you alright?" Before Maxwell could reply, Dorian's hand wrapped tightly around his elbow, giving him a hard shake as the fear in his voice became sharp. "Trust nothing! This is the Fade! Those crows were fear demons trying to trick you!" Dorian stepped back then, his hand loosening, but only a fraction, as he realized just how frantic he sounded. His perfect smile returned and he tilted his head to make himself look more attractive. Maxwell could see the easy practice of the movement, how the expression on his face seemed almost painted to his skin, like no real living thing. "Still no harm done. The first time I entered the Fade, it looked like a lovely castle filled with gold and silks. I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me." He looked around, taking in the green desert stretching endlessly around him. "This... looks nothing like the Fade I know. Perhaps the difference is that we are here physically. This is no one's dream. When you walked out of the Fade at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, did it look like this?" 

"I don't know. I still can't remember what happened the last time I did this, and I wasn't actually physically in the Fade that time I fought Envy." 

Maxwell tensed when he heard the sound of feet. But there were too many of them for it to be Desire. Dorian twisted around, still within easy closeness as he turned to look. He could see Blackwall's stout figure, Sera's long-limbed arms swinging as she ran in dizzying circles, Hawke's bow drawn tight with her last arrow, and Stroud following behind, looking lost and defeated. "Shitballs, fuck, shit, crap." The constant litany flowed from Sera as she spun around her. "Fade. Shit, arse, demons. Crap!" 

"This place is dangerous," Blackwall muttered. "I will gladly fight demons, but I have no desire to see where they come from. I'm no mage." 

"That's hardly fair," Dorian called out to them. Blackwall craned his neck and gave a shout of joy at the sight of the two. "My visits to the Fade are normally more pleasant. I don't usually wake up feeling the need to bathe. Usually. Sometimes... well, never mind that." 

"Inquisitor!" Stroud shouted as he jogged toward them. "There! Do you see it?" 

Maxwell looked to where he was pointing and saw the rift Clarel had opened, only now he was looking at it from the other side. 

"The demons came out of it. Do you think we can escape the same way?" Stroud asked. 

"Beats waiting around for demons to find us, right?" 

Together, they started forward. They had hardly taken more than a few steps before a strange woman stepped from the crevice of a mountainous, green rock to stand before them. Maxwell recognized her regalia if not her face: she wore the red and white garments of a cleric, and the headdress of the Divine. This was the woman who had perished in the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, whose death had launched the long and bloody war that had been thrust on Maxwell's shoulders. "By the Maker," Stroud breathed. "Could that be...?" 

"I greet you, Warden," came the same lilting voice from before. "And you, Champion." 

Maxwell shook his head, but the vision remained. She even dared to smile. "What are you? A spirit? A demon? The real Divine Justinia couldn't have survived the Temple." 

"Couldn't she? How much of the Temple do you truly remember? You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have." 

"Then simply tell us what you are," Hawke said. 

"I am here to help you." She looked at Maxwell, but her eyes were not the eyes of a living woman. They were like mirrors, reflecting everything back with perfect clarity. "You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor." 

"No, I don't." 

"The memories you have lost were taken by the demon that serves Corypheus. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. This place of darkness is its lair." 

Maxwell's heart thudded in his chest. His memories. The vision Braun. "How do we hurt it?" 

"When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it." Her eyes flashed. Gold beams poured from their depths and Maxwell rocked on his feet as he tumbled backward, into a dark, hidden room within the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There was Corypheus, and the Divine was held suspended in the air before him with magic. Grey Wardens stood like silent vigils, soulless, empty. Too full of Corypheus and the Blight to be alive. 

"Now is the hour of our victory." 

"Why are you doing this?! You, of all people!" 

"Keep the sacrifice still." 

"Someone help me!" 

"What's going on here?!" 

Maxwell stood across from himself. He had thrown open the doors and in Corypheus's shock, the Divine managed to knock the orb from his hand. It rolled, past his feet, and Maxwell reached down and-- 

Someone screamed. The vision was ripped from him. Maxwell stood alone in the Fade; the others had scattered, tripping over rocks, looking in horror all around them at the dark, invisible things that haunted their dreams. Maxwell caught glimpses of their nightmares. They shimmered, catching the light, in one turn they were solid, and in the next Maxwell could see they were only puffs of smoke. A man stood next to Dorian, black hair peppered with gray, his hands bloody. He looked like Dorian. "I love you," the man said. A hoarse, wounded animal cry was wrenched from Dorian's throat at the words. 

In the darkness, the long legs of a spider towered over them. Maxwell could see its monstrous visage staring down at the flies that had become stuck, its sticky hands spinning a frightful web to trap them in. Then it was gone, along with the Fade and Dorian and all the others. Maxwell woke up to a sky that was fluffy and blue. The desert had been replaced with soft grass and sweet-smelling roses. It was a beautiful day. If only every day was as pleasant as this one, but the Maker's mind was an abyss, his love a terrifying precipice. He plants a world, destroys it just as it is about to give fruit, and then plants another. "Have mercy, Maker; won't you return? Haven't we done enough?" 

A pleasant breeze blew and a sweet perfume pervaded the world. On a stone in front of him was Dorian, his eyes lined with kohl, licking his lips and regarding him. His skin shimmered like scales. Was this a snake, a man, or a cunning demon of the Fade? He heard laughter and Dorian's voice emerged from the creature. "I felt sorry for you, Maxwell Trevelyan. You cried, 'I don't want to be alone anymore!' I pitied you and came. What can I do for you?" 

"I don't want you. I didn't call you. Stop following me." 

The desire demon giggled derisively and showed his sharp, poisonous teeth. "Why? I do nothing to you. If you can't get laid, that's your own fault. It has nothing to do with me. Oh, but that's right. You haven't finished serving out your prison sentence. Never mind that the cell door has been open for years, yet you continue to rage at the bars. Now you think you can masquerade as this 'Herald'. Do you wish to follow in Andraste's footsteps? You worm! What impudence to think that it's your duty to save the world!" 

_He's right... he's right..._

"I have a secret to tell you, dear Maxwell," said the snake in a sweet voice, his eyes sparkling. He slid down from the rock like water and began, richly decorated, to walk toward him. Maxwell, despite himself, inclined his head to hear him. The snake licked his ear with his tongue. "It's Dorian... it's Dorian... it's Dorian..." 

"What?" Said Maxwell, shuddering. "What about Dorian?" 

"… it's Dorian you must save!" Desire hissed imperatively. "Not Thedas-- forget about Thedas. It's him, Dorian, you must save!" 

Dorian -- and it was Dorian this time, Maxwell was sure -- stood across the field, howling, fingernails biting into his ears as he stared down at a dead elf at his feet, his throat cut wide. Red ribbons were tied in bows up Dorian's toned, brown arms. Maxwell took a step towards him, Desire urging him on. "Save him! Save him from Nightmare and he will be yours! His body is beautiful, cool and accomplished. Take him! The Maker created him for you. He's waiting... Do you hear what I'm telling you? Lift your eyes, give me some sign. Just nod your head, my darling, and this very hour I shall bring you, on a fresh bed-- _him_." 

Desire had now pressed his hard, cool body against Maxwell's and was sliding slowly, tortuously, wrapping himself around him. Maxwell grew pale, closed his eyes, saw Dorian at his family home in Ostwick. He extended his hand-- he was seeking him. Maxwell had only to twitch the corner of his eye, to give a sign, and all at once: what happiness! How his life would change, sweeten, become more human! He would return home, he would become a knight in his father's service, he would reconcile with his siblings. Dorian would be there. He would shake his head while Cassandra and Solas fretted with their Inquisition. He would snigger and look at them with sympathy. Where would they ever end up, these theologians! 

The demon, his body glued to his own, hissed tranquilly, seductively, and a tender, plaintive lullaby flowed into the evening air. The entire meadow rocked like a mother with her babe. "I'm waiting..." 

And yet Maxwell said nothing, did not nod his head, or move. He remembered something that Dorian had said: "Trust nothing. This is the Fade." When had he said that? Years must have passed since then. The words had already turned wispy and rough as memory failed. 

As the silence stretched, Desire's hold on him tightened. His fingernails became claws. They pricked at his skin. Beads of blood bubbled up beneath each point. "I thought all Templars enjoyed a bit of mage-flesh," the demon laughed. 

Rage tore through him at the words. It blinded him to the meadow, to Dorian, and all he could see was Braun's laughing, twisted face as it was crushed beneath his maul. The illusion shattered, the threads of spider silk broke as Maxwell twisted free. He could see the rift! And Nightmare, the monstrous spider, creeping down toward him. 

"You must go!" The spirit that had masqueraded as the Divine cried out. 

Hawke pushed him. "Move! Get out of here! I'll handle the Nightmare!" Maxwell stumbled over the corpse of Desire, the demon's black blood dripping from his maul, his legs as weak as a newborn calf's. Dorian was there, his face looking old and harrowed, slipping one of his big arms around his shoulders to help him walk. He could see Sera and Blackwall and Stroud far ahead, waiting. Maxwell gave Hawke one last look and saw her standing straight and tall, her arms taut as she drew back her bow. "Sorry, Sebastian," she muttered as she let loose her last arrow.


	11. Chapter 11

Maxwell tore free of the Fade. He felt the sand beneath his feet and a cool breeze blew; the morning sun was gentle and colored the distant mountains pink. He suddenly became aware of a great many eyes staring at him. His soldiers, the Inquisition's soldiers, stared up at him in awe. The few Grey Wardens that had survived the battle gaped from the shadows. He could see his companions scattered among them. There was a cut on Cassandra's cheek and dried blood gathered around Vivienne's busted lip. He could see Iron Bull standing head and shoulders above the rest, Varric breaking away the others as he took a staggering step closer to the Herald, his eyes flitting from Stroud to Maxwell and then back to Stroud again. Cole was nowhere to be seen, but that did not bother Maxwell. He wasn't even sure if the spirit could die. It took him a moment to pinpoint Solas, who stood in the back, his body half-turned and his eyes trained on his feet. 

"With the Nightmare banished, Corypheus lost both his Wardens and his demon army," Stroud said. He smiled at the Herald. "But in the stories your soldiers will tell, their Inquisitor broke the spell with the Maker's blessing." 

"They need something to believe in." This time, the words did not become stones that weighed down his tongue. 

One brave scout broke from the Inquisition's ranks. "Inquisitor! The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself. As for the Wardens, those who weren't corrupted helped us fight the demons." 

A Grey Warden stepped up beside the scout and bowed to the Inquisitor. "We stand ready to help make up for Clarel's... tragic mistake." 

Maxwell barely heard the Warden. All he could see was Varric, his plaintive questioning ringing through the courtyard, "Where's Hawke?" There was a knowing despair in his voice as he looked over Dorian and Sera and Blackwall. He already knew the answer, but he still could not stop himself from asking again, "Where's Hawke?" 

"Hawke sacrificed her life to save us and strike a decisive blow against Corypheus." The words were wrong. They sounded like the words he would write on a piece of parchment to some bereaved peasant who could not read them about a son or daughter whose name Maxwell never knew. 

Varric's eyes shined in the pale torchlight. He nodded, frowned, shook his head. "Well..." Was the only word he could get out. Then he turned and left, Cassandra calling out after him. 

Maxwell pressed on, turning to address the assembled soldiers. "She gave her life not because she'd sworn an oath or been marked as special, but because someone had to do it." 

The courtyard was silent until one trembling, lost voice called out, "What do we do now?" 

The Inquisitor looked up at the slowly brightening sky, at the shades of pink and purple and gray. His heart felt lighter than it ever had before. Desire was gone. He was free. Maybe now, with time, he could learn to forgive himself. Right now there were men sitting in their houses, with their husbands and wives and children. He desired to touch a human hand, to breathe in human exhalation, to eat bread, drink wine, talk. Maxwell turned to look at Dorian, who would not meet his eyes. How many years had he longed for solitude, locked away in that little country chantry? He tore his gaze away from the man and lowered his head, where he spotted the Grey Warden who had asked the question. A little forgiveness. 

"The Grey Wardens will stay and do whatever they can to help. Stroud believes that the Wardens are worth saving... and I trust him. You're still vulnerable to Corypheus, and possibly his Venatori, but there are plenty of demons that need killing." 

Cassandra turned sharply, her eyes tearing away from the archway Varric had disappeared under. "After all that, you give them another chance?" She demanded. 

"You gave me one." 

Cassandra shook her head, her face twisted in disgust, and stormed out of the courtyard, through the same archway. Solas followed. They would come to understand in time. He would make them understand. He didn't want to be a sword anymore, he wanted to be a gardener.

* * *

Without Desire to tether him to the ground, Maxwell's feet no longer touched the earth. He stepped on clouds and made no sound. When the people saw him walk pass, they whispered to themselves. This was surely no mortal man, but a spirit; who else could move so gracefully? After his third resurrection, the people began to truly listen to what he had to say. He saw a former Templar and an elven mage laughing together in one of the tents, playing some drinking game that they had already forgotten the rules to. When he saw them together, Maxwell began to believe that the Maker may yet still be watching. That if he lifted a stone, he would find the Maker underneath, if he knocked at a door, the Maker would come out to open it for him, if he looked into the eye of his friend or his enemy, he would see the Maker sitting in the pupil and smiling at him. The days fluttered past. Time is not a field, to be measured in rods, nor a sea, to be measured in miles; it is a heartbeat. How long did this happiness last? Days? Months? Years? As they made their way back to Skyhold, Maxwell felt like a bridegroom and Thedas was his betrothed. Even in the cold, wet winter everything looked beautiful.

The indignant Cassandra shook her head. "Andraste fasted and wept," she scolded, glaring at him with leaden eyes. "She fought and did not laugh. She punished those who had wronged her people, she did not forgive them. But you-- wherever there is an inn or a merry wedding along the road, you're first and foremost. You eat, drink and laugh with the rest, and the other day at a roadside tavern you were not ashamed to dance with the young men and women. Who ever heard of a prophet laughing and dancing?" 

Maxwell just laughed, drunk on his own freedom. He would turn to his followers, the Templars and mages and Wardens who marched triumphantly behind him, to the peasants and fishermen who abandoned their fields and boats in order to run and hear him, seduced by the sweetness of his face, and to the women, who came with their infants in their arms. 

He told them that the Maker had only two commandments which the people must follow: to love and to forgive, for they would all sin. The days would come when they too shall be widows and orphans, the trespassers and the trespassed. If a poor wretch like him could forgive and be forgiven, then why not all? 

Solas listened to him and knit his brows. He was not interested in the Maker's kingdom. His greater concern was for Thedas, which was made of men and stones, not of prayer and clouds. Maxwell took great pains to reign in his temper, to listen to the elf's ramblings and try to make some sense of them, without letting himself become frustrated. He ignored the twisting suspicion that tangled in his heart. He must learn to forgive and to trust. 

One evening, at the foot of the Frostback Mountains, Maxwell entered a small Orlesian village. Doors opened; housewives emerged. Abandoning the housework, they ran behind him to hear the good news. Men lifted their children onto their shoulders; the sick ran behind his horse so that he might place his hand on their heads and cure them. 

An old village notable, very rich, cruel and dishonest, stood in his doorway, his hands against the jambs, and stared with curiosity at this approaching multitude. The mass of children, running in front and waving their hands in the air, knocked on doors and shouted, "He's coming, he's coming, the Herald is coming!" They were followed by a giant of a man, with red hair which spilled down onto his shoulders. The men and women who ran behind him vied to see who would touch him and acquire strength and sanctity. Farther behind came the blind and the paralyzed, and new doors continued to open and new crowds to appear. 

When old Vauquelin heard that it was the Herald of Andraste who had wandered into his village with an army a thousand strong, he became terrified. He had many troubles weighing on his soul, and at night he often woke up with a start to find himself struck dumb with fear. In his nightmares he seemed to be lost, plunged into the green mist of the Fade, abandoned by the Maker to be pulled apart by demons. Perhaps this man could save him. 

Having made his decision, Vauquelin stepped out into the middle of the road and placed his palm over his heart. "My Lord Herald," he said, "I am old Vauquelin, a sinner, and you are a saint. When I learned that you deigned to set foot in our village, I had tables set so that you could dine. Come in, quarter your soldiers in my barns if you'll be so kind. As we all know, it's for us sinners that saints come into the world." 

Maxwell entered the rich house. The elven servants arranged the tables in the courtyard and brought pillows. He sat, and on either side of him were his companions. The old proprietor enthroned himself opposite them, searching in his mind for a subtle way in which to direct the conversation to the subject of dreams and get the Herald's blessing. The food was brought, and also two pitchers of wine. The people stood outside and watched them eat and talk about the Maker, the weather, the orchards. "Herald, I have nightmares," Vauquelin said. "I ask if you would please give me your blessing, let me know that there is a place for me at the Maker's side when I die." 

Maxwell smiled and looked into the old man's eyes. He knew Vauquelin's type: the nobles who thought the whole world belonged to them. "I cannot give you a blessing, but let me tell you a story. Once, Vauquelin, there was a rich man who was unjust and dishonest. He ate and drank, dressed himself in silks and purple, and never gave as much as a kind word to his neighbor Jehan, who was hungry and cold. Jehan crawled under the tables to gather up the crumbs and lick the bones, but the servants threw him out. Then came the appointed day and both of them died. One went to the Maker and the other to the Fade. One day the rich man lifted his eyes and saw his neighbor rejoicing at the Maker's side. He begged Jehan to intercede on his behalf and free him of his torment, but the Maker said 'Think back to the days when you ate and drank and enjoyed the fat of the land while he was hungry and cold. Did you ever help him?'" 

Maxwell went quiet and took a bite of his mutton. Old Vauquelin sat with opened mouth, waiting to hear more. His lips had become dry, his throat parched. He looked at the Herald, imploring him with his eyes. "Is that all?" He asked, his voice trembling. "Is that all; is there nothing more?" 

"Served him right!" Sera said with a laugh. 

"And what about forgiveness?" Cassandra asked caustically. "You've preached of it nonstop since we left Adamant. Is the Maker unable to forgive?" 

Maxwell shrugged. "Forgiveness cannot happen until the wrongdoer first asks to be forgiven." Blackwall shifted in his seat to peer at the Inquisitor. "Our good friend Vauquelin has never asked for forgiveness. He doesn't want it. He wants a golden ticket." 

"I do! I do want to be forgiven!" 

"Then share your wealth. You think the Maker will let you take it with you into the Fade?" He looked at his companions. Sera, Varric, and the Iron Bull were doing a poor job of covering up their laughs. Cassandra, Solas, and Vivienne stared back with stone-hardened eyes and twisted mouths. Blackwall looked thoughtfully into the empty space somewhere above Maxwell's head while Cole whispered dream-thoughts into his ear. Dorian avoided his gaze. He drank from his cup with slow, measuring sips, hiding behind the rim of his glass. The mage had been avoiding him ever since their trip into the Fade. With that Maxwell stood up. "Come. We still have a two-day ride." 

Dorian slipped away the moment they stepped across the portcullis and into Skyhold Castle. Maxwell followed him with his eyes as he let the groom take hold of the reigns, slipping from the back of his great, black mare. Dorian retreated to the safety of the library without bothering to change his travel-worn robes, throwing himself at the nearest stack of books, glancing through their pages before tossing them onto his chair with ever-growing disgust and frustration. Maxwell crept quietly up the stairs, watching him. And Dorian knew he was being watched. 

"You have remarkably little here on early Tevinter history," he said and his voice was strangely light and carefree compared to the storm raging in his grey eyes. He still would not look at Maxwell. "All these 'gifts' to the Inquisition, and the best they can do is the _Malefica Imperio_? Trite propaganda. But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it." 

"That's the Dorian I know: critiquing every book in my library." 

Dorian finally turned to face him, whatever easy emotion he was trying for was torn to shreds as his words came hotter and faster. "I wouldn't have to if you could find some rebellious heretic archivist to join the cause." 

Maxwell watched the brimming anger coloring his words and tightening his shoulders with curiosity. "Are there rebellious archivists? Other than you, that is?" Something in the back of his mind told him it was a terrible idea to bait Dorian at that moment; the mage had a temper that could rival Maxwell's. He couldn't help it; Maxwell was fascinated by the way his eyes flashed at him. 

But then the man started to pull back, that beautiful mask finding its way across his features and Maxwell hated it, he hated it, he wanted to smash it and let himself be washed away in Dorian's anger and happiness and love. "If Corypheus ever starts burning masterworks of literature, I’m sure a few will pop up." His voice was light again and he turned away. "Did I see something by Genitivi here? I could have sworn..." 

"What is this about, Dorian?" 

For one long moment, he said nothing. His eyes remained trained on the rows of books. Maxwell could see a fine tremor running up his spine, down his arms, through his hands that he kept folded close to his body. "When we fell into the chasm, into the Fade... I thought you were done for... I don't know if I can forgive you for that moment." 

There was a physical pain inside Maxwell's chest as he felt something swell and pull at the words. "I'm sorry you had to go through it with me." 

Dorian turned on him, his face twisting as the anger overtook his fear and grief. "I'm not sorry I was there with you! _Sorry_! _Sorry_! _Sorry_! That's all you ever say! _I'm sorry I didn't spend the night with you_! _I'm sorry I ran away after telling you about my past_! Don't apologize! Don't be sorry! Don--" 

Maxwell surged forward and grasped the man's face with his hands. He kissed him and felt Dorian's fingers clench into his shirt, pulling and pushing in equal measures as though he wasn't sure whether he wanted to draw him closer or fling him away. Maxwell pulled away with a smile. "Do you want me to apologize for that?" 

"Don't you dare!" Dorian snapped and then he was tugging on Maxwell's arm, pulling him out of the library and down through the halls and corridors back towards his quarters, almost shoving him through the open door and closing it with a kick. "It's all very nice, this flirting business," he said between quick, short kisses, standing on his toes to reach Maxwell's mouth and then pulling on his red hair to get him to bend down when he got tired of that. "I am, however, not nice man. So, let's stop wasting our time saying _sorry_ and move on to something more primal." 

Maxwell wrapped his hands around Dorian's waist, big hands that had cleaved grown men in two, and pulled him off with a surprising gentleness. "Do we need to move things this quickly?" 

Dorian stared up at him with a befuddled expression. "Quickly? We've been positively chaste!" 

"I've waited 32 years. I can wait a little longer for you." 

Dorian shook his head, blinking at the words coming from the Inquisitor's mouth. "Exactly my point! You've been waiting years for this! Don't you want it? I'm offering it. Whatever you want, whatever you've been dying to try, I'll give it to you." 

Maxwell moved his hands from Dorian's hips back to his face. "You don't think this is enough for me?" 

The mage pulled away from his grasp and Maxwell let him go. "What is it that you want from me? A relationship?" 

"Is that such a terrible idea?" 

Dorian said nothing, but skittered back, like a spooked horse. Fear spiked through Maxwell's heart for a brief second, but Dorian didn't look like he was about to run. "Where I come from, anything between men... it's physical. It doesn't go beyond that. It's... it's not that you don't care, you just... don't hope for more." 

"I want more." 

Dorian looked up at him like Maxwell was a cliff he had just been told to jump off of. He wondered if anyone had ever said those words to Dorian before. So, Maxwell offered him a kindness, a feather mattress to which to break his fall, a joke that he could hide behind until he gathered enough strength to confront his fears. "I suppose this would be a bad time to propose then." 

It worked. Dorian laughed and stepped forward, back into Maxwell's arms. "Fine. Have it your way," he whispered against his lips. "I am, however, not leaving your quarters empty-handed. It's a matter of pride." He kissed him. Maxwell had never felt so free.


End file.
